


Smile For the Camera

by StormDancer



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, Nerd Zayn, Popular Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-07 19:47:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7727509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormDancer/pseuds/StormDancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Going into his last year of high school, Harry's sure of a few things: his status as one half of the school's Golden Couple, that thinking about the future is more stress than it's worth, and that Zayn Malik is an annoying, uptight, overachieving prick. Turns out, he shouldn't be certain of anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smile For the Camera

**Author's Note:**

  * For [irorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/irorn/gifts).



> I sort of went a little off from the prompt, but I hope you enjoy anyway!

Harry doesn’t jump out of his seat at the sound of the bell. It’s true, English class wasn’t the most interesting today—they’re only a couple of weeks into school, there isn’t much time for it to be interesting—but rushing to Chem isn’t going to be any better. Instead, he takes his time. He says hello to Niall, chats with him for a few moments about the football game that night; gives Liam a nod as he rushes past on his way to the next class, his sneakers squeaking against the floor; gives Chrissy a bright smile that gets her to roll her eyes and laugh.

In fact, most of the room is empty when Harry finally makes his way out. There are only a few people left—there’s the teacher, of course, a young man who Harry doesn’t love mainly because he doesn’t seem to love him as much as every other teacher does, and, of course, Zayn Malik, who’s up at the front talking to said teacher.

Harry’s fingers don’t itch for his camera at all. He can admit, Mr. Young is rather handsome, with his sandy blonde hair and boy next door charm; Zayn—who, Harry thinks with a laugh at himself, is actually Harry’s boy next door—has no boy next door charm, but a lot of blindingly sharp good looks. It’s a nice picture. But Harry has better places to be then there.

The hallways are crowded, but not so crowded that Harry doesn’t see the person he’s looking for, and makes his way over to her. “Hey, baby.”

Laura makes quite a picture too, leaning against the wall talking with some of her friends. They make a very attractive couple, Harry knows perfectly well—she’s model pretty, the perfect subject for Harry’s camera, and dresses more sharply than probably anyone else in school, like she’s ready to jump into a courtroom or something; Harry might be more charming than handsome, but he knows how to work his dimples and long legs and curls. But Laura on her own is pretty enough, especially as she tilts her face up for a kiss.

“Hi, Harry.” She smiles. “Morning.”

“Good morning!” Harry grins at her, then, because he wants to and she looks great today, in her leggings and tunic sweater, he steps back, pulling out his camera. She rolls her eyes but laughs, tilting her chin to show off her best angle. Her friends all giggle, and Harry backs up. He’s got the perfect shot lined up, Laura’s dark hair framed against the grey of the lockers—then someone bumps into him, and he stumbles, the shot going wild and the camera nearly dropping from his fingers.

“Hey!” Harry yelps, turning. He’s somehow not surprised by who he sees there, righting himself from where he had stumbled too.

Zayn looks up from the book he was reading as he walked. “Sorry.” It doesn’t sound very sincere. In fact, it sounds scornful, as does how his gaze darts from Harry to Laura to the camera.

But Harry doesn’t like to hold grudges. It’s not good for his karma. “It’s okay,” he replies, but Zayn’s already gone, his nose back in his book.

“He’s kind of an ass, isn’t he?” Laura asks, joining Harry.

Harry shrugs. He’s never been very pleasant. Harry’d tried to befriend him, back when the Maliks had moved next door to him when he was ten, but Zayn hadn’t responded to any of his overtures then, and now he basically ignores Harry and Harry ignores him. It’s fine.

“We don’t need him to cloud our day.” Harry throws his arm over her shoulder, tugs her into him. “Walk you to class, my lady?”

It usually gets her to giggle. Today, she smiles, runs a hand through her hair. She must be having an off day. “Yeah. I guess.”

“What’s up?” Harry asks, as he takes her books. Eyes turn as they walk through the hall. He doesn’t pretend he doesn’t like it. He’s always liked people paying attention to him. It’s what makes his photography so ironic, Niall teases him sometimes—that he wants to be behind it, not in front of it. But he loves eyes on him, and he loves figuring people out through the viewfinder, and they can both work.

“The college talk in homeroom got to me, is all.” Laura shrugs.

“College talk?” Harry echoes. “Like, the one about how we need to start preparing now?”

“Yes, that one.” She gives him one of her exasperated looks, the ones that pinch her face. “Didn’t it scare you at all? Have you done any of what they said, about the lists and essays or anything?”

“No.” Harry grins. “It’ll happen, Laura. Don’t worry.”

“How can you—don’t you care?” she demands. Her hands are at her hair again, fiddling with the ends like she does when she’s agitated. “This is our whole future. What if we get it wrong? What if we’re not prepared? What if we mess up—”

“Don’t dwell.” It’s Harry’s best advice. “That’s a whole year away—”

“No it’s not! Apps are due in January, that’s just a few months!” She’s starting to sound hysterical, her voice getting screechy. Harry pats her back, a little awkwardly. He’s good at comfort, but not great with panic.

“That’s a few months, then. It’ll get done.” Harry grins at her, tightens his hand a little on her shoulder as they pause outside her classroom. “Don’t worry about it, babe. Worst comes to worst, you end up taking a gap year.”

“A—” Her jaw drops, then she shakes her head. “Never mind. I don’t know why I thought you would get it.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.” Laura tosses back her hair, and takes her books from Harry’s arms. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

“Later.” Harry leans down to kiss her again. Her lips taste like cherries, like always. “Love you.”

“You too,” she tells him, then goes into the classroom.

Harry makes his way to Chem, sliding into his seat a few minutes late, but nothing he can’t get out of with a charming apology.

“Where were you really?” Niall asks, pushing his notes over so Harry can skim them to catch up.

“Walking Laura to class. She was freaking out about college or something, I don’t know.” Harry scribbles down the next thing the teacher does. He’ll get Niall’s notes before the test anyway; he takes great notes and it’s always worked before. “That talk this morning scared her. Don’t know why. It’ll happen.”

A snort comes from next to them, and Harry’s not surprised to see Zayn’s head at the desk, bent over his notebook so his profile shows to what he must know is great effect. His lips are curled into the sneer his face seems to be permanently set in. Or at least, Harry assumes it was him, and not Liam next to him, because even though they’re inexplicably friends Liam’s pretty cool.

Harry ignores it, anyway. He doesn’t need Zayn’s negativity. He’ll coax Laura out of her mood later—or kiss it out of her, hopefully—then everything will be back to normal.

///

“Styles.” Something is digging into his side. It doesn’t really hurt, but it is uncomfortable. It makes Harry’s head feel less cloudy, which isn’t something he wants. He’s enjoying this drunk. It’s making his head fuzzy and making him not think about anything, which is nice.

“Harry!” If only this person would stop talking. They’re really ruining this whole ‘forgetting about everything except the drunk’ that Harry has going on. “You better not be dead.”

“Not dead.” Harry knows that much. He might wish he was, but he’s not. To prove it, he opens his eyes.

Right, the stars. That’s why he’d lain down here, to look up at the stars, because they were so pretty. He’d wanted to take pictures of them, and it would be easiest to take pictures of them from his back. They wouldn’t run away from his camera. They were always good for it. Not like Laura.

“Okay, good.”

Harry blinks again. His vision is fuzzy, but there aren’t just stars above him. There’s a very pretty face. A face with a name. He knows that name. He knows those cheekbones.

“Malik?” he asks. He reaches up, because if he’s hallucinating comfort he could do better than Zayn. But skin is scratchy under his hand. “What are you doing here?”

“You’re lying on my front lawn.”

“Oh.” Harry turns his head. There’s grass there. How did there get to be grass there? He’d lain down to look at stars. “Why?”

“Good question. But you’ve got to get up.”

“But it’s comfortable. And you can see the stars. The stars are pretty.”

“Yeah, and you’ll die if you sleep out here, so you have to get to bed.”

“I don’t wanna.”

“Well, you have to.” There are hands on his, tugging. Harry resists, just to be a shit. He’s allowed to be shitty right now. He’s heartbroken. Or he thinks he is, once he gets through the drunk. It’s amazing, how all the alcohol in the world can’t make him forget Laura’s solemn face. “Stop it. You need to go home.”

“No!” Harry sits up, worried. He can’t go home. He’s so drunk. His mom will be so mad. He isn’t supposed to be drunk when he has work in the morning, those are the rules. He can’t go home. He’ll get in trouble. He doesn’t get in trouble. Or is his mom even home? Either the house will be empty or he’ll be in trouble. Both sound awful. “No, I can’t!”

“You can’t sleep out here.” Now that he’s sitting up, apparently it’s easier for Zayn to get him to his feet. Harry stands up—then stumbles. The world is spinning. It’s nice of it, really. Harry doesn’t want it to stop. When it stops he’ll have to think about everything.

“I won’t go home.” Harry tries to cross his arms over his chest, but it sets him off balance, and he would be toppling over but then Zayn’s there, catching him. He’s a lot stronger than he looks. He looks like he’d break if Harry fell on him. But he’s catching him instead. “I won’t, I can’t, Laura’s stuff is there, I can’t. I’ll sleep here. It’ll be like a campout. We can see the stars.”

“You can’t.” Harry thinks Zayn is looking at him, then he can feel him sigh. “Okay, come on.”

“I won’t go home,” Harry protests, but Zayn’s walking and Harry has to follow him. If he tries to take him home he’ll throw up on him or something, it would serve him right.

“You aren’t. You’re coming to mine.”

“Oh.” That’s okay. That’s not home. There won’t be pictures of Laura here. Probably.

Harry trips over the front steps, but Zayn just hauls him up. “You’ve got to be quiet, yeah? Everyone’s asleep.”

“Quiet!” Harry agrees. He makes to zip his lips, but he thinks he more gets his forehead. Zayn laughs.

“You’re so trashed, Styles.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. He’s so trashed. He’s trashed and Zayn’s being nice to him and nothing makes sense. “I had to be.”

“Yeah?” They’re going up more stairs now. Harry doesn’t understand why there are so many stairs. Stairs suck. There shouldn’t be any stairs. No stairs just stars. He was standing near stairs when Laura was there.

“Laura dumped me.”

Zayn almost trips this time. Harry definitely can’t stand on his own, so he lists over, but Zayn catches him before he falls for real.

“Oh?”

“She said I wasn’t serious enough. Said that I was com—com—compacer. Complacet. Complacent,” Harry gets out at last. At least he can say that. “Am I complacent? I can be serious.”

“I’m sure you can.” A door is opening, and Harry’s inside a room. It’s dark, but there’s a bed. “Here we go.” Harry’s on the bed. He’s lying on the bed. His shoes are off. His hair’s being smoothed back.

“I don’t wanna be broken up,” Harry says, vaguely, as blankets are pulled up around him.

“Then you shouldn’t have been so complacent, should you?” That’s not nice. Harry is drunk and heartbroken. Zayn should be nice to him. “If you puke in my bed, I will kill you.”

“Mm-hm,” Harry agrees, and it’s the last thing he remembers.

///

The bed isn’t his. It’s the first thing Harry registers, on waking. The bed isn’t his, though it’s comfortable; his mouth feels like the grossest thing on planet earth. He must have gotten very drunk, and ended up some place that wasn’t home.

He opens his eyes. There are stars on the ceiling, is the first thing that registers, the little stuck on ones that glow in the dark—and just like that, everything comes rushing back. Laura. Getting so drunk he could barely stand. The stars. Zayn. Zayn’s house.

Shit. He sits up. Yes, it’s definitely Zayn’s house. He’s only been in it once or twice, but he can sort of see into Zayn’s room from his window, and he recognizes Zayn’s leather jacket draped over the chair anyway. And even if he hadn’t figured out where he was, the door is open, and there’s a face there—one that must have woken him, or he must have sensed it and that had woken him.

The little girl—Safaa, Harry remembers vaguely, the youngest sister—is looking at him with big eyes like her brother’s. He smiles at her, because he likes kids and she’s cute, and she gasps and jumps, like she hadn’t noticed he was awake before.

“Dad!” she yells, suddenly, loud enough that it makes his head ache. “Dad, Zayn’s got a boy in his room!”

“No, Safaa—”

“There’s a boy in Zayn’s room!” She yells again, and suddenly there are more feet, and another female head pokes over her—older, sharper. Even more uncannily like Zayn. Wali-something? He doesn’t really remember. She’s a freshman, he thinks.

“He does!” she crows, delightedly, and Harry has to be glad that he’s fully clothed and under blankets, with how intently they’re both staring at him. “When’d you even get here? Did he sneak you in last night?”

“He’s not allowed to have boys in his room,” Safaa informs Harry. “None of us are. Or Doniya is, but she’s in college so she’s not home anyway.” She makes a confused face. “Or if it’s Liam or Danny or Ant. Then they’re allowed to be in Zayn’s room. But you aren’t them.”

“Okay, go away, both of you.” Harry doesn’t think he’s ever been so thankful to see Zayn in his life. At least he’s not staring at Harry like his sisters are. And he’s shooing them away.

“You’re going to be in so much trouble!” Waliyha—right, that’s her name—taunts, and Zayn scowls at her.

“He’s just a friend!”

“Then why is he in your bed?”

“None of your business!” Zayn yells back, then slams the door. “Sorry,” he tells Harry.

“It’s okay.” It’s rote, because Harry’s not sure he is okay. The full assault of the Malik sisters was a lot, in the morning. A bit hungover. After—shit, after everything last night. “I mean, I should be apologizing to you, did I get you in trouble?”

“Not really. It’ll be fine.” Zayn yawns, covering the back of his hand.

He yawns again, then stumbles over to the chair by his desk, slumps over it. He’s—well, he’s not sneering. He looks soft, if Harry had to put a word to it, in his sweatpants and beanie pulled down so only a few soft looking curls peek out from under it. He doesn’t look like the asshole Harry’s known for the past six years. Harry wishes he had his camera. It’s a great picture, Zayn bathed in the golden morning light. But Zayn’s always been attractive. An asshole, but attractive.

Actually—“Where’s my camera?” he demands. He’d had it last night, he always had it, he can’t lose it—he’d saved for months for it, he can’t lose it—

“On the bedside table.” Harry glances over, and it’s like he can breathe again. There it is. Okay. At least he didn’t lose it and Laura. “I went back and got it last night.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Harry looks at Zayn for a second longer. “Why?”

“Because someone might have stolen it if I left it out all night?” Zayn says it like it makes sense. Like it makes sense that he’s being nice to Harry, like it makes sense that Laura dumped him, like it makes sense that Harry’s lying in Zayn Malik’s bed right now.

“No, like. Why’d you do anything last night? You don’t like me.”

Zayn shrugs, and glances away, down at his hands. “I guess I’m a sucker for the pathetic.”

“I’m not pathetic!”

“You were dead drunk on my lawn yesterday because your girlfriend dumped you. It was pretty pathetic.” Harry winces, but it’s probably true. “You’re lucky it was me who found you. Wali would probably have left you there.”

“I would not!” comes through the door, and Zayn picks up a shoe and throws it at the door.

“Go away! Nothing interesting is happening! Sorry,” he tells Harry. “Sisters.”

Harry nods, like he understands. He doesn’t. Gemma’s older than him, and though there’s plenty of affection and teasing, it’s not loud like this. His mom and stepdad work a lot, and Gemma’s always gone with her friends. He doesn’t think he’s ever listened at her door, or had a shoe thrown at him. He never thought Zayn’s house would be loud. Or warm. Zayn’s definitely never been either of those.

“Um.” Harry’s phone is still in his pocket, he feels, so he pulls it out, and swears. “Shit, I have to get to work.”

“You work?” Zayn cuts himself off. “Okay. I’m not, like, keeping you here or anything.”

“I know.” Somehow, it feels weird to get out of bed. He feels old. He feels drained. Is this what happens without Laura? How had he survived before last June? “Um. Bathroom?”

“Yeah, down the hall. One of the girls still listening can show you!” He raises his voice at the end, and sure enough, when Harry opens the door, two bright smile shine up at him.

“It’s right there,” Safaa points innocently, and Harry can’t help grinning at her as he goes in.

He rinses out his mouth, pisses, then looks at himself in the mirror. He does look pretty pathetic, it’s true. His eyes are bloodshot, his hair’s a mess, his shirt’s literally dirty from lying in the grass. Is that why Laura broke up with him? Because he’s a mess? But he’s not usually.

He runs a hand through his hair, then heads back to Zayn’s room, where he assumes his shoes are. Zayn’s not there anymore, and neither are his sisters, which is a little relieving. Harry likes attention, but three Maliks are a lot. Even if Zayn’s not loud, he’s got a loud presence.

It’s the first time he has a chance to look at Zayn’s room—or at least, the parts he can’t see from his window, where it faces the Malik’s house from a little farther up—and as it’s easier to do that than to think about last night, it’s what he does. There are the overflowing bookshelves he expected, with all their big thick books on them, sketchbooks piled high. There are a couple AP, ACT, and SAT prep books on the desk.

But one wall, above the desk where Harry can’t see from his window—that’s the part Harry hadn’t seen before. It’s a collage, it looks like, and there’s, well. It’s pretty cool. There are posters from different comics Harry doesn’t really know because he’s not a nerd, band posters he does know, sketches and doodles of everything from Zayn’s sisters to dogs to a picture of a tree with its veins dripping like blood. It’s far cooler than Harry thought Zayn could ever be.

He shakes his head. Or nerdier, he decides, given the amount of comic book things in there. He puts his shoes on, and heads downstairs.

He thinks he almost made it out unseen, but then there’s a noise from the kitchen. “Are you the boy my son had in his room?”

Harry freezes, then puts on his best smile as he turns. He’s good with parents. Laura’s mom—fuck, no. Not thinking about that.

The man sitting at the table looks a lot like Zayn, Harry’s always known, but he’s bulkier, a little less finely boned. He’s got a paper open in front of him, but he’s looking right at Harry with stern gaze that makes Harry want to quail.

“Not exactly,” he says, with his best smile. “I was, but only because I got a bit sick last night, and Zayn was nice enough to take me home.”

“As opposed to your home next door?” Mr. Malik raises an eyebrow. Harry squirms. He looks disappointed. Harry hates disappointing people. “That sounds—”

“Dad,” Zayn suddenly appears from the door behind Mr. Malik, and throws an arm over his shoulder, grinning affectionately at him. “Stop being mean.”

Mr. Malik grins up at his son. It’s—Harry hadn’t known Zayn could smile like that, big and sweet and only a little annoyed. “I’m practicing for if you ever do have a boy up there.”

“Your confidence in me is astounding,” Zayn drawls, then lets go of his father to lounge against the wall. “Where’s mum?”

“At her mother’s.” Mr. Malik looks at Harry. “Do you want to stay for breakfast, Harry? My wife is the cook of the family, but I can whip up some eggs as well as the next person.”

“Um, no.” It’s all too much. Too many Maliks being unexpectedly nice, and Laura, and the hangover. “Thank you.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to leave unfed.”

“Dad, he has to get to work.” Zayn pushes off the wall, grabs Harry’s wrist to pull him away.

“Bye, sir!” Harry calls over his shoulder, and gets a low chuckle in response.

“That was rude!” Harry tells Zayn, as he hurries them outside.

“Do you need to get to work? Because otherwise you wouldn’t have left until he stuffed you so full you couldn’t move. Maliks take hospitality seriously.”

“Oh.” Harry tugs on a curl, trying to clear his head. “I do have to get to work.”

“Okay.” Zayn nods. “Well. Feel better. And, um. I’m sorry about your, well. Laura.”

And there it is. Hearing her name feels like an actual punch. He can’t call Laura to talk with her. He won’t see Laura Monday morning, kiss her hello. They won’t get those looks in the hall, the golden couple. They won’t be anything.

“Yeah,” Harry chokes, then he hurries down the stairs towards his own house.

///

Work is fine. Usually Harry loves the men’s formalwear shop he works in—it’s much more fun than bussing at a restaurant or working at a grocery store or the sorts of things his friends do. But today, he’s despondent—and that’s the word he decided on, if anyone asks. He’s despondent. It sounds sad but in an interesting way, not in a got drunk and ended up passed out in the neighbor’s bed way, which he’s decided he’s not leading with.

But the despondence doesn’t play well at work. Lou, his boss, makes all sorts of fun of him while he mopes, though she also buys him ice cream at lunch, which makes up for it mainly. She never really liked Laura, though Harry doesn’t know why. Laura was the perfect girlfriend. And now he doesn’t have her. The perfect couple, broken.

So Harry drags himself through work, doesn’t even really get much pleasure when he fits a man for a suit that makes him look like a new man for his first job interview in years, or when he helps a man fit his wedding suit, which he usually loves. He gets through it. Then he goes home, gets all the ice cream he can, and sits in his room to wallow.

When he wakes up the next morning, though, he takes a deep breath. There’s ice cream melting in a carton next to him, the last song that played on his phone is Joni Mitchell. He’s wallowed. He’s mourned. Now it’s time to get over it.

He takes another deep breath, like he does when he tags along to yoga with his mum. In and out. He is a strong, independent man, and it’s Laura’s loss.

Then he gets out of bed. Throws away the ice cream, changes the music to something happy. It’s still early, so he pulls on his clothes for school, and gets out a box. He needs to get Laura all her stuff back.

He’s on his bed, reaching up to get a picture of her that he keeps on the window, when he happens to look down. Zayn’s curtains aren’t drawn, like usual in the mornings—Harry thinks it’s part of his waking up process, because they’re usually drawn when he goes to bed. It means Harry can see in, though, which has always been interesting. Not in a creepy way, Harry doesn’t watch or anything, but right now he just happens to see Zayn packing his backpack, putting in more textbooks than Harry ever carries, or possibly owns. He always leaves before Harry, though he generally gets to school later; Harry’s seen him pile into a car with his mom and sisters, so Harry guesses they all get dropped off in stages. If Zayn shouldering his backpack and heading downstairs means anything, he’ll probably be leaving soon.

Harry glances around his own room. All of Laura’s stuff is in her box. And what better way to start off a day than to do a good deed? It’s only fair, after all. Zayn helped him. He should help Zayn.

He tumbles downstairs, trading a kiss for a banana with his mom, then he’s out the door and next door. He goes up the stairs, then rings the bell, smiling brightly.

It’s Waliyha who opens the door, and her face goes through a number of expressions when she sees it’s him—confusion, excitement, mischief, glee. “Zayn!” She yells into the house, without a word to Harry. “It’s the boy you snuck in!”

“You know his name!” comes the call back, then Zayn’s next to Waliyha. Harry can see down the hall, can see Safaa’s head peeking curiously out; he thinks he catches a glance of Mr. Malik and maybe even Mrs. Malik above her. They must all be there in the mornings.

But right now, in front of Harry, Zayn is giving him a confused look. He looks more like Harry is used to seeing him, in his jeans and a Pink Floyd t-shirt, not the softer version Harry had seen over the weekend. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Harry is only just now remembering that usually Zayn hates him.

“What do you want?” Zayn asks, then winces when Waliyha elbows him.

“And you say I’m not polite!” she scolds.

Zayn rolls his eyes, then takes a step outside, closes the door behind him with Waliyha firmly on the other side. “There.” Then he looks at Harry again, who’s figured out it’s probably better to be quiet when they start bickering. “So, what do you want?”

“I was wondering if you wanted a ride to school.” Harry waves a hand back to his car in the driveway. It’s not much, just a boring Camry his dad got him as a guilt gift last year, but it gets him places.

“Um.” Zayn pushes at his hair, his eyes a little narrowed. “Like, no offense, but why? You’ve never offered before.”

“You helped me, I help you.” Harry gives his most inviting smile. Zayn doesn’t return it, just gives him that same furrowed brow look, but eventually, he nods.

“Can Wali come too? It’d be easier to spare my mom the drive altogether.”

“Sure!” Harry’s fine with that. It’s probably better, to give him and Zayn some buffer. And this is really helping his karma.

///

The car ride starts with Zayn in Harry’s front seat, his backpack on his lap, Waliyha in the back, and an awkward silence all around.

“So.” Waliyha pipes up, after Harry’s messed with the music enough that Zayn’s snorting. “Does this mean you’re Zayn’s boyfriend?”

“What?” Zayn sputters, as Harry nearly kills them by stopping too abruptly.

“No!”

Waliyha sits back, smirking like that was her plan. She’s an evil child, Harry realizes. He can’t help but like her. “I was just wondering,” She asks innocently. “You were in Zayn’s room on Sunday morning, now you’re driving him to school. Are you going to carry his books yet?”

“Shut up, Wali!” Zayn hisses, looking at his backpack like it’d disappear if he glared at it enough, so Harry wouldn’t even have a chance to carry them.

“And don’t you have a girlfriend?” Waliyha goes on. Harry has a feeling this is where she was heading all along. “Is Zayn your other woman?”

It hurts less than Harry thought it might. Wallowing clearly helped. “Laura and I broke up,” he tells her, evenly. He can see her eyes go wide in the rearview mirror, then how she bites at her lip, like her brother does.

“Sorry,” she mutters, leaning back. Harry can see her going for her phone, though. It’s too late to stop her, but he figures it’ll already have gone around school. He can’t see Laura keeping it a secret.

“Are you doing okay?” Zayn asks suddenly, quiet enough Waliyha might not hear them. It’s the first thing he’s said to Harry since he got in the car.

Harry shrugs. “Yeah. It’s done.”

Zayn’s head tilts. “Just like that?”

“It’s done,” Harry repeats. He’s telling himself that. It’s done. It’s over. He’s had his mourning. Now he’s moving on.

Zayn still looks skeptical. “Have you thought about what you’ll say when you see her? Don’t you have classes together?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“And like, homecoming? The dance? Didn’t you have plans for that?”

“I’ll ask someone else.” Harry sighs. He doesn’t get what Zayn’s doing, making him dwell on this shit. He’s moving on. “It’s not a big deal.” Zayn presses his lips together, clearly unconvinced. “Look, I don’t know how you deal with break ups, but this is my process, and it works.”

“Don’t listen to him, he hasn’t had to.”

“Wali!” Zayn hisses again, but it doesn’t work. She doesn’t even look up from her phone.

“Hasn’t had to?” Harry repeats. He glances at Zayn, trying to take him in. Even Harry knows he’s hot. A nerd, but people go for that, sometimes. And there’s no denying the appeal of those big hazel eyes, the bone structure, that pouty lower lip that’s always looked very bitable. Harry might have had a girlfriend for the past few months, but he’s not blind. He’s a photographer, it’s his job to see aesthetics. “Really?”

“I’ve had other priorities,” Zayn snaps. “I don’t have time for a boyfriend.” It seems to come out before Zayn thinks, then his face freezes, sets.

Harry doesn’t know why he didn’t think Harry got that, from the way he wasn’t allowed to have a boy in his room. But he doesn’t get a chance to answer before they’re pulling into school, and Harry has to concentrate on dodging students to find a parking place.

Waliyha’s out as soon as he pulls to a stop, with a “Bye!” for Zayn and a “Thanks!” to Harry.

Zayn’s not much slower, throwing his backpack over his shoulder after he pulls another one of his thick books out of it. Now he really does look like school Zayn, the one who hates Harry. But he hovers, as Harry gets out.

“Um, thanks.” He pushes his hair off his forehead. “For the ride.”

“Thanks for Saturday night.” Harry gives him a tentative smile.

“So, we’re even, then, yeah?” Zayn bites his lip, then shakes his head like he thinks better of it. “I’ll see you, Harry.” He turns to go, bringing his book up.

“Zayn?” Harry calls. It’s impulse, more than anything, that has him lifting his camera, snapping a picture as Zayn turns. Zayn startles, and Harry lowers the camera to grin. “That’s all. Bye!”

For a second, Zayn looks like he’s going to say something again, but then he just leaves. Harry looks down at the camera screen, to see the picture. It’s a good picture—Zayn’s slight surprise, his wide eyes. The camera loves him, loves every angle of his face, the tiny bit of baby fat still clinging to his cheeks. Huh.

Harry puts his camera away, and grabs the box with Laura’s stuff. He’ll give it back to her before class, then he’ll be done with that.

///

It becomes a habit, after that. Or maybe a routine. Harry doesn’t exactly know how it happens, but somehow he ends up driving Zayn and Waliyha to school every morning. Harry doesn’t know why he didn’t before, really—it makes more sense for Mrs. Malik, and it’s easy enough for him. Zayn seems to appreciate not having to leave so early, if the fact that he sleeps in an extra fifteen minutes is any indication. Now he gets up about the same time as Harry, if the timing of when his curtains open is accurate.

He doesn’t talk much, though. The car rides are usually made up of Waliyha on her phone in the back, Zayn sitting silently or maybe reading one of his big books in the front seat, and Harry messing with the radio. Zayn had told him, after a week of it, not to take offense, he’s just bad with mornings—Waliyha had agreed with a laugh that made it sound like that was an understatement—so now Harry just lets him wake up. It’s an interesting process. Harry’s always been a morning person, so it’s not one he really knows, and watching it is educational—how Zayn’s gaze starts bleary, how he slowly seems to draw himself together, until they’re at school and he’s the person Harry’d known for seven years.

That’s still the only interaction they have. Harry offered a ride back, once, but Harry has work and Zayn apparently has five million clubs and tutoring and also a job, so their schedules don’t line up. And Zayn still ignores Harry in the halls, more or less; maybe he doesn’t glare like he used to, but he definitely doesn’t respond to Harry’s nods, or the times Harry knows he noticed Harry snapping a picture with him in it.

It’s fine. It’s sort of nice to have that new routine, with Laura gone. Which is a whole new thing to get used to. It’s not a lack, exactly. Harry doesn’t feel torn in two, like all the poems and TV says he should. It’s just…weird. Different. Harry does feel like only half of the golden couple, and maybe a little less golden. She apparently got some of their friends, and so now there are more people who won’t talk to him, which he isn’t used to. It’ll blow over, he knows, and so lets it happen, but…it’s weird.

And then, over the weeks, it gets less weird. And then he can look at Laura without it hurting, and everyone seems to have forgotten they’d ever gone out at all, and she’s apparently going to homecoming with Mark Owens and Harry finds his only reaction upon hearing it is thinking about how he should find a date of his own.

“I’m thinking of asking Monique to Homecoming,” He tells Zayn, one morning. Zayn grunts. He’s got a book open on his lap today, the Bio textbook. Harry figures that means he’s awake enough to talk. It’s when he has fiction open that he doesn’t respond to Harry. “She’s cute, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“She is!” Waliyha adds, from the backseat. “Is she your girlfriend? Do you want her to be?”

“Shut up, Wali,” Zayn snaps, which gets him a hurt scoff and a muttered, “just saying.”

“Are you taking anyone?” Harry asks, because it feels like the thing to do. And maybe he’s curious. Curious about who Zayn would take to a dance.

“No,” Zayn flips a page in the book. “I don’t have time. There’s that Bio test the Monday after, and I can get in some extra hours at work. And early applications are due soon.”

Harry huffs out a breath. “You can take a break for a night.”

“With who?” Zayn looks up, raising his eyebrow. “Who would want to go to Homecoming with me? Do you know any guys who would be up for it?”

“Um.” Harry swallows. He hadn’t expected that sudden attack. “I mean, you’re plenty hot. Who wouldn’t want to?”

Zayn looks at him for a second longer, then snorts and looks back down at his book. “I don’t want to go anyway.”

“But you have to go!” Harry stops maybe a bit more suddenly than he should. “It’s our last Homecoming!”

“So we’ll make it four out of four I don’t go to.” Zayn sighs. “Look, Harry. I know you’re loving high school or whatever. But I’m more concerned about getting out to what’s really going to matter. That’s the difference between us.”

“Yeah, that you’re boring,” Waliyha puts in, and Zayn rolls his eyes. Harry keeps his gaze on the road. It’s not wrong. He does love high school. Or he likes it a lot. He’s got everything he wants, even if he’s not half of the golden couple anymore. He’s happy.

It’s just that Zayn’s sounding an awful lot like Laura had sounded, right before she dumped him.

“What’s wrong with that?” He demands. “What’s wrong with enjoying where I am now? At least I’m enjoying it and not counting down to get somewhere else.”

Zayn scoffs. “I don’t have much to enjoy right now.”

“You could.” Harry shifts his hands on the wheel, trying to get them to relax. “Come to Homecoming.”

“No.”

“You can spare an evening from studying, you’re the smartest person I know.” Harry lets go to wave his hand. “Come. Have fun. I dare you.”

“I think those two things are oxymoronic.” At Harry’s look, Zayn explains, “Coming to Homecoming and having fun.”

“Yeah, if you’re going to be lame.” Harry lets out a breath. He doesn’t know why this matters, but it does.

“It’s not lame. What, am I supposed to drink bad punch and slow dance with girls I don’t want to dance with? Sounds like a blast. I’d rather be studying.”

“I dare you,” Harry repeats, because it’s really his only leverage. “Just try it. Have you ever really tried it?”

“I—who am I supposed to ask? Or am I supposed to go alone? Because that’s not lame?”

“What about Perrie?” Waliyha suggests, all helpfulness now. “Or see if any of her friends would be up for going as friends. Or you can take one of my friends.”

Zayn actually turns around in his seat to face her. “I am not going to the dance with my freshman sister’s friend.”

“I was just trying to help.” Waliyha scowls. “I don’t want my big brother looking like a loser either. It’d be bad for me.”

Harry laughs at that, at Zayn’s irritated face. His eyes are on the road, he swears. Not on how Zayn’s eyes are tilting up at the corner in a smile he can’t quite hide, or how pouty his lips are. “Zayn, trust me. Face like yours, I don’t think you’ll have a problem getting a date.”

Harry wishes he had his camera out and wasn’t driving, because Zayn’s little smile and blush as he glances down at his lap is something Harry wants to immortalize.

///

Harry does end up going to Homecoming with Monique. They look as good as he and Laura ever looked together, her in her pink dress that makes her dark skin shine and her smile glow, him in his jeans and sports jacket he’d gotten on discount from work. She giggles when he gives her flowers when he picks her up, and smiles prettily, and more than that she’s a lot of fun, Harry knows. She laughs at his jokes and doesn’t comment on his camera and lets him take pictures of her. It’s exactly what he needs in a date.

He’d seen Zayn getting ready through the window, a little—had resisted the urge to throw a rock at his window in every cliché imaginable to compare notes on what they were wearing. He did know, through the grapevine, that Zayn was going with Perrie Edwards as Wali had suggested, which makes sense because they’re co-presidents of the yearbook club and so probably friends. But Harry didn’t know more than that, so it’s still a surprise when he catches sight of Zayn by the punch table, talking with Perrie and Liam and his date, as he takes a few photos of the dance.

His camera’s already up, so it’s easy enough to snap a picture of Zayn. He looks good. He always looks good, Harry’d always known that, but he’s got his hair slicked back into some sort of quiff that is asking to be mussed, and he’s wearing dark jeans and a white button down shirt with what looks like an untied bow tie around his neck, which shouldn’t work but somehow hits the right level of formal and uncaring. He looks…older, somehow. Like he really is ready to get out of here, to go to college and leave all this behind.

“Want punch, Harry?” Monique asks, probably following his gaze, and Harry nods.  

“I’ll get us some.” He takes more shots of the group as he goes, catching Louis and Eleanor slow dancing to a fast song, which is adorable, and Mr. Young grooving along by himself, which he’s going to laugh at forever. He greets people as he goes, compliments everyone. It’s easy. It’s comfortable. He likes it. What more does he need than this?

He pours two glasses of punch, sniffs—not spiked yet, but he bets Louis has a flask—and is about to go back to Monique when, “Harry!” Liam calls, and waves him over. “I didn’t think anyone could ever get Zayn to one of these, well done.”

“I’m just that good,” Harry agrees, grinning. It’s harder than it should be to look at Zayn, for some reason, but he manages it. “You look good.”

Zayn gives that little smile again, the soft one that Harry’d never seen before the last few weeks. “You too.”

Harry ruffles his hair, shakes it out self consciously. “Thanks.” He can feel himself smiling, and turns quickly to Perrie. “And you look lovely, as always.”

“Why thank you.” She gives a little curtsey. Harry’s always liked Perrie. He likes her more now that she helped get Zayn here. He’ll be safe with her. “Now, if you’re really good, you’ll get Zayn to dance.”

“I don’t dance.” Zayn says it flatly.

“He’s too cool for it,” Perrie informs Harry.

“No, I look like an idiot when I do.” Zayn crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m here. Isn’t that enough?”

“Louis probably has a flask,” Harry tells Perrie. Liam makes a disapproving noise, and Zayn nods with him.

“I’m not drinking here.”

“Zayn—”

“No,” Zayn repeats, and Harry sighs. He’s not going to be that person, but honestly.

“Fine. You’re dancing anyway.”

Zayn doesn’t end up dancing. Harry goes back to Monique, dances with her, with other girls, with Louis and Niall, with whoever. He hangs back for a while too, takes pictures, because the lighting at dances is always interesting to play with, steals Louis’s flask a few times. Zayn stays by the punch table, talks with Liam and Perrie, a bit with Mr. Young. But he laughs some, Harry notices. Looks like maybe he’s having fun. Definitely watches when Jamie and James have a massive fight that dissolves into make outs before the chaperones break it up.

Harry loses track of Zayn when the dance ends and he heads to the afterparty at Shawna’s. He’s driving so he doesn’t drink much, but this is where he can really let loose like he likes. He doesn’t end up hooking up with Monique, but that’s fine, it’s fun anyway, he’d rather dance with everyone and have fun and let the night carry him through. He’s high off of life by the time he’s pulling into his driveway, and he doesn’t want to go to bed yet, and he doesn’t want to be alone.

Zayn’s bedroom light is still on, so that seems like the obvious solution. It’s convenient, being friends with the boy next door. Harry doesn’t know why Zayn resisted for so long.

It takes three rocks thrown at Zayn’s window before Zayn sticks his head out of it. “Seriously?” he hisses. He’s changed, Harry can tell from here. “Are you insane?”

“Come down!” Harry insists. There are stars out. He wants to look at the stars more.

“It’s cold. I need to sleep.”

“You aren’t asleep yet,” Harry points out. “Come on, live a little. Come down here.”

He can almost see it playing over Zayn’s face, but finally Zayn huffs out a breath. “Fine. I’ll be right down.”

Harry does a little victory dance, though he thinks Zayn might miss it because he’s closed the window. It’s a real pity, because it was a pretty sick dance.

It takes Zayn three minutes before he comes down. He has in fact changed, and is now in sweatpants and a sweatshirt that looks a little too big for him, but very cozy. His hair is still up, though, and he’s still scowling. It’s an interesting contrast, the edged and the soft, the warm and the icy.

“Seriously, what’s wrong with you?” he asks, when he reaches the place where Harry’s sitting on the lawn. “It’s one in the morning. I have work in the morning.”

“So do I.” Harry waves his hand, then uses that hand to grab Zayn’s wrist, pull him down next to him. “But come on, it’s Homecoming night, and the stars are out.”

“Mars is bright tonight,” Zayn mutters, and Harry laughs.

“You’re a nerd.”

“Yeah.” Zayn leans back on his hands, tilting his head up. Harry snaps a picture, because he can. Zayn rolls his eyes, but doesn’t remark.

“So did you have fun?” Harry asks. “I lost track of you there for a while.”

“Yeah.” Zayn shrugs. “It was fine.”

“Just fine?” Harry sighs. “This is why you drink. It makes it more fun.”

“I don’t drink where I’ll get caught.”

“Where you’ll get caught?” Harry repeats. Zayn’s not even looking at him, is just looking up at the stars. He pulls the flask he’d stolen from Louis out from underneath his jacket. “What about here?”

Zayn turns his head at that. Harry doesn’t know how he hasn’t had a boyfriend yet, how he doesn’t have people falling over their feet at him—he looks unreal here, gilded in the golden streetlights, his neck arched and elegant, his cheekbones almost jumping off his face, his eyes huge. He might be an annoying prick half the time, but he’s so hot.

He looks at Harry, then at the flask, then shrugs. “Just a bit, sure. I do have work tomorrow.”

“Why are you so concerned about that stuff?” Harry asks, as he hands over the flask. Zayn takes a sip, makes a face like he’s not used to it, then swallows. “Can’t you get in trouble just once?”

“No.” Zayn takes another sip, then hands it back. “Not if I could get in real trouble. Not if it could mess things up.”

“You can’t stop thinking about your big future plans even for a second?” Harry takes his own sip of the flask. It really does burn going down, but it feels like it fits, sitting on the yard under the stars with Zayn. “Really?”

“No.” Zayn accepts the flask when Harry offers it again, but he doesn’t drink, just holds it, one finger tracing over the snake etched into it. “I can’t mess up. If I just do like I’ve planned, it’ll all go right.”

“And what are your plans? Be a big shot artist? Some sort of professor?”

“No. I’m going to be a doctor.” Zayn says it simply, like fact. “A surgeon, probably, but I’m not sure about that yet.”

“Oh, there’s something you’re not sure of?” Zayn snorts. “But you know that already? You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Zayn takes another drink now. “I am. And so I’ve got to get into a good school and do well there to get into a good med school. It’s what matters.”

“More than, like, having fun now?” Harry doesn’t quite understand that drive. The single minded focus. “Having any fun now?”

“Don’t you have a dream? Have something you want more than anything?”

“I guess.” Harry’d never really thought about it, if he’s honest. He’ll go to college because that’s what you do, and he’d always figured he’d figure it out then. “I mean, maybe the photography thing, I don’t know. But I don’t focus on it and make myself miserable.”

Zayn blinks at him, like he’s the one who’s being incomprehensible. “You don’t get it. I have to do this. I have to succeed.”

“Why? Because you have to be the best?”

“Because I need to make my family proud.” Another fact. Another certainty at the heart of Zayn. “My dad’s worked his ass off to give me and my sisters a decent life, and so’s my mom. I know they’ve given up so much. I’ve got to pay it back.” He hands back the flask. “And I think I’ll like being a doctor. I like helping people. And the challenge.”

Harry nods. He gets it, even if he can’t understand. He just—he doesn’t have that. He doesn’t know what his future will hold, and he’s not sure he wants to. He likes it here. He likes not knowing. “But like, today? Will your future be worth life sucking now?”

“Life doesn’t suck. I have friends. I have fun.” Zayn smiles wryly at Harry. “Might not be your kind of fun, but I have in fact experienced it.”

“Shut up.” Harry bumps him with his shoulder, because he can’t quite find a retort to that. Zayn lets himself be jostled, and Harry settles back. They’re closer than they had been before, though. He hadn’t noticed that, but it’s nice, being able to feel Zayn’s body heat, have their fingers brushing against the grass.

“I don’t expect you to get it.” Zayn goes on. “But like, it matters to me. That’s the point of working so hard and not doing all the stupid high school shit you do. It’s not that I’m lame. It’s just that I need more than this.”

“And what about a boyfriend? You’ve never had time for that either?” Zayn’s lips look very plump somehow, in this light; he’s been biting on them, Harry thinks. They’d looked good at the dance too. His lips and those big eyes, looking ahead to things Harry can’t see. “You don’t know what you’re missing there.”

“I’ll have time for that later.” Zayn turns to Harry, still with a faint smile. “Seems like more trouble than it’s worth, now.”

“I don’t know about that.” Harry leans forward, like he’s sharing a secret. Maybe he is, he doesn’t know. He’s going with whatever’s happening here. “It has its perks.”

“Not ones I’ve planned for. No distractions,” but Zayn’s looking at Harry’s lips, and he’s leaning in too, until they’re a breath apart.

“Zayn?” Harry asks, or says, and he doesn’t know what it’s asking anyway.

“Yeah?”

Harry doesn’t give him an answer, just kisses him.

Zayn tastes like the vodka they’d been drinking, and his lips are a little chapped, but they’re soft beneath Harry’s, and his indrawn breath of surprise is sweeter than Harry’d expected. But he doesn’t pull away; he lets Harry kiss him, and more, more than Harry expected, he kisses back—a little clumsy, a little hesitant, but he opens his mouth when Harry nips at his lip, with another of those breaths, and that’s even better. Harry moves his hand to the back of Zayn’s head, to tilt it a little better, to slide his fingers through Zayn’s hair, mess it up like he’d been wanting to.

When it ends, Harry lets Zayn go, lets him pull away. Harry’s feeling pretty good about himself, really; a good kiss to finish off a good night. But Zayn’s eyes are wide and a little panicked over lips a little swollen from Harry, and he jerks back.

“Zayn?”

“I—I have to go.” Zayn scrambles to his feet. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Monday. At school.” Harry’s never seen him babbling like this, all his cool gone. He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up more.

“Zayn.” Harry gets up too. This is seriously ruining his mood. “Calm down.”

“I am calm. It’s just late and I have work and—”

“It was just a kiss.” A very nice kiss, but Harry doesn’t have to say that.

“It—”

“Zayn.” Harry puts his hand over Zayn’s mouth. “Don’t freak out.”

Zayn pulls his hand away. “I’m not freaking out!” He takes a step back, then another one. “I’m going inside.”

Harry lets him go, then turns to go inside. His lips are still tingling.

///

Apparently, what they’re doing about the kiss is ignoring it. Zayn treats Harry the exact same way he always does when Harry picks him up Monday morning, and the one time Harry tries to say something about it Zayn glares until Harry closes his mouth. It’s not the most flattering thing in the world, Harry has to say, but maybe it is the easiest. Harry’s not sure what to think about it either, if he’s being honest. It wasn’t the best kiss he’s ever had, was just a thing that had to happen in the moment, but still—it’s lingered in Harry’s mind. The feel of Zayn’s mouth. Those little breaths he’d taken. How he looked when he was kissed, and how he might look when he’d really been kissed for a while.

But apparently they’re ignoring it, and that’s probably best. Zayn might think any sort of romantic thing is more trouble than it’s worth, but Harry’s pretty sure Zayn’s more trouble than he’s worth. He’d probably be like Laura, breaking up with Harry because he doesn’t have plans, or some shit.

So they go back to normal, or what’s become normal. Harry has his friends, his parties. Zayn has his work and his own friends. Harry gives Zayn rides to school. Sometimes he sees him through his window, working late, his head bent over his desk and his soft hair falling into his eyes. Harry dates a guy he meets at work for a couple weeks, a college kid named Steve who’s a business major and talks about his ideas for new companies until Harry wants to gag. He mentions their dates to Zayn on their drives, and Zayn sympathizes, though he’s quiet about it. He’s sympathetic about their breakup too, although this time it’s Harry’s call and doesn’t hurt too much.

“He was just boring, you know?” Harry says, as they drive. Waliyha’s home sick, so it’s just the two of them today. It’s nice. Nice to talk to Zayn about this, because he loves his friends but they just don’t understand about it being a guy, and they sometimes don’t say things because they don’t want to hurt Harry’s feelings. Zayn certainly doesn’t care about that, and it’s somehow nice. Harry knows he’s saying what he really thinks. “Hot, and the sex was good, but so boring. I think I’d have thrown myself off a bridge if I had to hear one more thing about IPOs.”

“It’s what you get for dating a business major,” Zayn points out, but he’s smiling, his fingers stroking over the cover of the book on his lap—Joyce, today. “What did you expect?”

“For him to spoil me, clearly.” Harry grins. “Maybe that’s my life plan. Find someone to support me while I do nothing but take pictures all day.”

“Good luck with that if you can’t put up with a business major,” Zayn counters, which is a fair point.

“Fine. Maybe I’ll marry a nice doctor, then. I hear they’re interesting.” Harry smirks at Zayn, who’s gone back to looking at the cover of his book. Is he blushing?

“Maybe a nice doctor won’t have you,” he counters, and Harry laughs, and doesn’t look at Zayn again.

///

By late October, Harry swears everyone in his year has gone insane. “Okay,” Niall announces, when he sits down next to Harry at lunch. “It’s in. I’m done.”

“What’s in?”

“My early decision app.” Niall holds up crossed fingers. “I get in, and then I’m done.”

“Already?” Harry asks. He knew, vaguely, that early action applications were due soon, but he didn’t have one, so he hadn’t really remembered. Narrowing down to one college was too hard, right now. He’d prefer to wait.

“Yes, already, thank god. Pushed the button this morning. It’s in, I’m that much poorer, I’m done.” Niall sighs like a weight’s been lifted off his chest. “For once in your life, Styles, take my picture. I want a record of this moment.”

Obediently, Harry snaps his photo. Then because his camera’s out, he turns around the lunchroom, snaps a few more—a bunch of Sophomores studying for a test, some Freshman boys doing some slapping game. Zayn sitting in a corner with one of the Riach brothers, shoveling food into his mouth like he’s going to choke.

That explains why he was so on edge recently, Harry figures. If an application was due he’d be going crazy.

“Okay, so now I can think about it, what are we doing for Halloween? Are you sure we can’t go trick or treating? I think we could clean up.”

“Louis’s having a party,” Harry answers, distractedly. Zayn says something to his friend, then he gets up, throwing his backpack over his shoulder. “I was going to go to that.”

“Legend.” Niall follows his look. “Malik looks even more high strung than usual, doesn’t he?”

“So did you.” Harry pushes to his feet too. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

Niall’s smile is a shade too knowing for Harry, but he wants to catch Zayn before he goes too far. “Yeah, okay.”

Harry jogs after Zayn. The halls are crowded, with people going to and from lunch, but Harry doesn’t stop to talk to any of them, just follows the dark hair pushing its way through.

He finally catches up to Zayn outside the computer lab. It’s empty, everyone at lunch, but Zayn throws himself into the closest seat. “What do you want?” he demands, before Harry can talk. It’s sharper than Zayn’s been in a while.

“Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” Harry leans against the desk as Zayn logs in, opens his Google Drive. “You have an app due soon, right?”

“I’m getting it in tomorrow.” Zayn opens up a document. “Which means I need to finish the essay now, Harry. I have to proofread it, and I—”

“Need to eat,” Harry interrupts. “What are you doing for Halloween?”

“I did eat, and I don’t know, probably going to the Riach’s. Now can you—”

“Breathe, Zayn.”

That gets him a glare. “I am breathing. I just need to finish this. This is important, Harry. This is Harvard. If I get in….”

“I know.” Harry does know. He knows what this means to Zayn. But he can’t imagine Zayn also isn’t about to explode with tension. “And I’ll let you do it, if you just…”

“Do you know?” Zayn snaps. He’s not even looking at Harry, staring at the screen. “You don’t care if you go to college, let alone where. You don’t care about anything but right now and what party you’re going to this weekend.”

Harry’s breath hisses out like he’s been punched. It felt like a body blow, like an echo of everything Laura said to him before. Zayn’s never been like that to him before. He’s ignored him, hinted at it, but never pointed that nastiness at him.

“I’m going to ignore that, because you’re stressed and not thinking,” He tells Zayn, though. It’s not true. He knows where he wants to go, sort of. He’s got plans for where he’s going to apply. Zayn’s just stressed.

“I am thinking. That I want to be alone.”

“I’ll leave you alone. If you agree to go to Louis’s Halloween party.”

“Why do you even care?” Zayn spins to look at him. He’s got a bit of crazy eyes going on. “Why are you even here, Harry?”

“Because you need to blow off steam.” Harry crosses his arms over his chest. He can be as stubborn as Zayn. “So will you come?”

Zayn glances at the screen, then back at Harry, clearly trying to judge how much time he’d have to spend arguing with Harry.

“Yeah, fine. Now can I please work? I need to do a proofread before next period.”

“Yep!” Harry leans down to hug Zayn, then, because it feels fitting, he presses his lips to Zayn’s cheek quickly before pulling back. He can feel his own face turning red, and Zayn’s glare has changed into something wide-eyed. “I, um. I’ll leave you alone now. Good luck! You got this.” Harry backs up, away from Zayn.

But not so fast that he can’t see Zayn touch his cheek, his brow furrowed like he’s bewildered, before he turns back to the computer.

///

Harry knocks on the Maliks’ door a good two hours before they have to leave to get to the party, because he’s not taking any chances. Mrs. Malik opens the door, smiling in something like surprise when she sees Harry.

“Harry! Come in, how are you, dear?” She steps back, and Harry comes in, toeing off his sneakers.

“I’m good. Is Zayn here?”

“Yes, he’s upstairs. I thought he said you weren’t leaving until later?” She doesn’t sound displeased, just confused. Harry grins at her, his most charming look that always works with moms.

“Yep! I’m just early.”

“Good. Will you be staying for dinner?”

“If it wouldn’t be a bother.” Harry hadn’t thought about dinner really, had just been planning to microwave some leftovers if he had to, because his mom’s at work. But eating here sounds much better. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem. How’s your—” she cuts herself off, laughing. “You don’t care, I’ll let you go up to Zayn now. Tell him dinner’s in forty five minutes.”

“Of course. Thank you!” Harry gives her a little wave before he heads upstairs. He thinks he remembers the way to Zayn’s room.

It turns out it doesn’t matter, because Zayn’s door is obvious—the only closed one.

“Yeah?” Zayn yells through the door, when Harry knocks.

“It’s Harry!”

“Aren’t you early?”

“Yes. I’m coming in,” Harry announces, and opens the door. Zayn’s lying on the bed, a book beside him like he was about to get up. He’s still in what he wore to school today, the jeans and open flannel over the black t-shirt, his hair a little messy from the day.

“Why are you here?” Zayn sits up, but doesn’t move to make room for Harry, so Harry sits at the desk chair. At least Zayn isn’t doing homework, he figures.

“Making sure you don’t back out.” He looks at Zayn again, but some of the tension he’s been carrying for the last week is gone. “Application in?”

“This afternoon.” Zayn nods. “Now I just have to wait, and get the rest ready. I’ve still got—”

“Nope.” Harry lunges forward, to slap a hand over Zayn’s mouth. Zayn’s eyes go wide again, and his mouth moves a little against Harry’s palm before he stills, glaring. “No thinking about that tonight. Those are the rules. You got your Harvard app in, you can celebrate!”

“I’m not good at celebrating over commercialized pagan holidays.”

“Then you can learn.” Harry glances around the room. The collage has changed since he was here last, new drawings and a new poster, this one for Pink Floyd. Where does Zayn even find time to do that? “Oh, and dinner’s in forty five minutes. Your mom wanted me to tell you.”

“I suppose you’re staying?”

“I’m not letting you out of my sight,” Harry informs him. Zayn’s eyes go to his, then skirt down quickly, his cheeks going a little red. Harry’s not entirely sure why, but he likes making Zayn blush anyway. “I’m not letting you get away. Not before the party, anyway.”

“Um, yeah. Okay.” Zayn looks up again. God, his eyes are so big. It’s almost unnerving. “What do you want to do, then?”

“Do you have video games?” Harry suggests, and laughs at the scornful look Zayn gives him. “Just checking! I thought you might be too cool for them. Too busy reading your Russian novels or like, playing chess or something.”

“Just for that, we’re playing Super Smash Brothers first, and I’m going to kick your ass.”

“You won’t!” Harry protests.

Zayn does, in fact. Harry decides it’s because he was distracted by watching Zayn play, how he turned all that intense focus on the screen, his eyes narrowed and his whole body curved towards it. It almost makes losing worth it, to see that. Not quite, and not enough that Harry doesn’t demand a MarioKart rematch, because he owns at MarioKart, but almost.

Dinner is an experience—both of Zayn’s younger sisters are there, and Mr. Malik and Waliyha team up to tease Zayn incessantly about going to the party, while Harry tries not to cry at the spice of the food. Then they notice that, when Safaa innocently asks what’s wrong with Harry, and Zayn starts making fun of him for that. It’s loud and fun, in a way Harry’d never imagined Zayn’s family being.

Getting Zayn ready for the party is easy enough—he throws on jeans and Harry picks a red Henley out of his closet, something that’s tighter than what Zayn usually wears. He turns his back like Zayn orders when he changes, and doesn’t mention that he can see Zayn in the mirror anyway, sees his ribs and the ink on his collarbone and the hair around his bellybutton, that makes Harry shift and look away.

“Don’t you boys look nice,” Mrs. Malik says, as they both run down the stairs. She tugs on the collar of Zayn’s shirt, as he rolls his eyes at Harry over her shoulder. “Don’t give me that look, while you’re at home you’re still my baby.”

“There wasn’t a look, mom.”

“Sure.” Her sarcasm voice is very similar to her son’s. “Now go have fun.”

“Yes, mom. Bye!”

Zayn hurries Harry out the door with a wave for his mom, barely giving Harry time to yell, “Thank you Mrs. Malik!” before they’re outside.

“No curfew?” Harry asks, as they head to his car.

Zayn shrugs. “I think they forgot. Doniya always had one, but I never go out, so I don’t think they thought about it.”

“Well, that works for us. For you,” Harry corrects himself, because he doesn’t know what Zayn’s plans are for the evening. Or his own, really. Maybe they won’t end up coming home together. “You ready to have fun?”

“I’m ready to go to a party.” Zayn’s jaw is set, like he’s about to take a test, but his fingers drum over his knee, nervous.

“Hey, it’s okay. I know Liam was planning to come, so you’ll definitely know at least one person other than me.”

“Two people. Great.” Zayn raises a hand to his hair, then seems to remember how much gel is in it and lets his hand fall. “I should be—”

“Nope! Celebrating, remember?” Harry takes his hand off the wheel to put it on Zayn’s, calm his skittering fingers. Zayn’s skin is warm under his, as he goes still. “You’re taking the night off from your plans.”

“I can’t just—”

“You are. Just for tonight. Just…have fun.” Harry pulls to a stop sign, and takes the time to glance sidelong at Zayn, to judge his reaction. “And if you wanted to drink, you could.”

“I told you, I don’t drink. What if the party gets shut down?”

“I’ll keep an eye on you.”

“What if you’re drunk too?” Zayn shakes his head. “I’ll be fine sober.”

“I…if you want to, that’s all. I can stay sober, make sure you’re okay.” Harry can’t really look at Zayn, driving as they are. Maybe it’s a good thing, because the words catch in his throat more than they usually do, and he doesn’t know why. “No pressure. But I’ll be there, if you need me.”

“Oh.” It’s all Zayn says, and when Harry steals another look at him, he’s staring out the window, the back of his head not giving anything away.

Harry does keep an eye on Zayn at the party. He has a single, weak drink, but for the most part he stays more sober than he usually does at parties—it’s not a sacrifice for him, he can party as well sober as he can drunk. And this way he’s less wary about snapping pictures of people, better able to judge how incriminating the picture will be and whether his camera will survive. So he watches as Zayn slowly eases away from Harry’s side, first to talk to Liam, then to Perrie Edwards, then to some other people Harry doesn’t really know.

“So, did he come with you?”

“Yeah. Was I not allowed to bring someone?”

Louis shakes his head, watching Harry watch Zayn. Or maybe just watching Zayn. Or maybe just staring, he’s clearly a little drunk and Harry can’t quite tell. “Your friends are my friends. I just never thought he’d, like, lower himself to coming to a party.”

“He’s not like that,” Harry protests. “He’s just…focused.”

“Looks plenty focused,” Louis agrees, as Zayn presses the back of his hand against his mouth to hide his giggles. It can’t hide the light in his eyes, though. Harry raises his camera, takes the picture. He can crop out the solo cup if Zayn needs him to. “Was it with you, or _with you_?”

“What do you mean?”

Louis manages to look condescending even through his drunk, which is a special skill of Louis’s. “You know what I mean.”

Harry does, but he doesn’t particularly want to talk about it. He wants to have fun. He wants to make sure Zayn has fun.

“Do I?” he asks with a wink that has Louis groaning, then crosses the room to Zayn.

Zayn looks up at him, grinning widely. His cheeks are flushed, and his hair’s a little messy—not like it is in mornings, when he’s just woken up, but something different. Something a little more debauched, like when Harry had run his fingers through it. “Harry!”

“Zayn!” Harry yells back, unable not to grin. He nods hello to Liam and his friends, who Zayn was talking to. “Want to dance?”

Zayn shakes his head, hard. “I don’t dance.”

“I don’t think most people here dance, it doesn’t stop them.” Harry gestures towards the makeshift dance floor. It’s not exactly attractive.

“No, I can’t dance, I look so stupid.”

“That’s the point.” Harry’s hands are around Zayn’s wrists now, somehow—he thinks he’d be holding Zayn’s hands, if one of them weren’t full of a cup. He wants to dance with Zayn, or to get Zayn to dance. It’s fun, he wants Zayn to have fun. “Don’t think about later. Just think about now. You don’t need to plan right now.”

Zayn bites at his lip, his brow furrowing as he thinks.

“You can do whatever you want,” Liam tells Zayn, with a bit of a glare at Harry. Harry gives him the same hard look back. He’s not pressuring Zayn into anything, he’s just…opening his eyes to a different world. That Zayn can go into or not. He just wants Zayn to not think so much.

“I’m not saying he can’t,” Harry retorts. He doesn’t even know why Zayn and Liam are friends anyway, Liam’s on the football team, and Zayn doesn’t care about sports. He doesn’t get to be a better friend to Zayn than Harry is. “I’m just saying that having fun is fun.”

“Not if he’s not comfortable with it.”

“I know.” Personally, Harry thinks maybe Zayn could do with some discomfort, some surprises, but that’s just him. “I’m just saying—”

“Okay.”

“What?” Both Liam and Harry look at Zayn, who nods, tips back the rest of his drink, makes a face at the taste, then sets the cup down and looks expectantly at Harry.

“Let’s dance. Live in the moment, right?”

“Um, yeah.” Harry hadn’t quite expected this, but, “Yeah!” He manages not to stick his tongue out at Liam as Zayn tugs him towards the dance floor.

Zayn is not a good dancer, it’s true. He’s stiff and awkward, even with alcohol in him. But Harry makes him laugh pretty quickly with his own, admittedly pretty bad, dancing, and that gets Zayn to loosen up a bit, especially after Niall comes over and he and Harry do some flailing at each other that ends in both of them laughing too hard to dance more. Normally Harry might try dancing with someone to hook up with them at this point in the night, but not when he’s got Zayn here, when it’s so much more fun to watch him wiggle his hips and wave his arms and collapse into giggles onto Harry’s shoulder at one point after Jesse’s Girl comes on and they end up doing some weird hand wavy dance to it.

They leave the party at about one, when everyone else starts leaving. Zayn’s well past tipsy, leaning on Harry as they go to the car, giggling into Harry’s shoulder for no reason. His cheeks are flushed, just barely visible against his skin, and he’s just…loose, flopping into the seat when Harry shoves him into it.

“Have fun?” Harry asks, as he starts the car.

Zayn nods. “I did.” He sounds as surprised as anyone. “This living in the moment thing is fun. What do we do now?”

“Get you home.” It’s less firm than it could be, probably. Harry just can’t help but laugh at Zayn’s perturbed face.

“That’s not the moment.” Zayn pouts, sticking out his lip. “I want to do something more.”

“I think you should sleep now.” Harry doesn’t know how much Zayn’s drunk before or drunk now, honestly, but he doesn’t want to be the one responsible for Zayn passing out somewhere or getting hurt. He doesn’t want the Maliks mad at him, for one thing. “Or go to bed, at least.”

“But that’s boring. And I’m not being boring tonight. I’m being fun.” Zayn runs his hand through his hair, messing it up more. “We should dye my hair.”

“What?” Harry might put on the breaks too fast.

“I think I’d look good with blonde hair. Like Niall. Or like a boybander! I could have frosted tips.” Zayn laughs, tipping his head back. “Or maybe pink hair. Or green. Or rainbow! I should have rainbow hair, Harry. Do you think I’d look good with rainbow hair?”

Harry is still trying to process the thought of Zayn with blonde hair, and what that would look like. He’s not sure he can. “I think you’d look good with any hair,” he tells him, though, because he’s pretty sure that’s true. He’s pretty sure Zayn couldn’t not look good.

“You’re just being nice.” Zayn’s head tips back against the seat. “You’re always being nice. Except to me. You weren’t nice to me for a long time.”

“I was plenty nice!” Harry protests. Zayn’s head flops to look at him this time.

“No, you didn’t like me. You think I’m mean and boring.” Zayn hums. “I am boring. But I have to be. It’ll be worth it. And I like it. I like my books.”

“I know, Zayn.” Harry takes his hand off the wheel, putting it on Zayn’s thigh to stroke a comforting circle on his knee. Zayn’s a talkative drunk, who knew?

“I like my books,” Zayn repeats, and turns his head again, so he can look out the window. His legs is still moving a little beneath Harry’s hand, so he knows he’s not asleep or anything, but they still complete the rest of the drive in silence, until they pull into Harry’s driveway and Harry shakes Zayn’s leg lightly to get his attention.

“We’re here.”

Zayn’s brow furrows. “No we’re not. This is your house.”

Harry has to laugh at Zayn’s confusion. “And we’re going to walk to yours. Come on.”

“Okay.” Zayn gets out of the car on his own power, manages to walk too. Maybe the drive sobered him up, Harry thinks. Though he’s still clearly concentrating hard on walking, his whole face screwed up and pretty adorable.

He makes it all the way to his house, then inside, clearly trying very hard to be quiet so as not to wake anyone, even if he starts laughing uncontrollably about halfway up the stairs.

“What?” Harry whispers. He wraps his arm around Zayn’s waist, in case his giggles overbalance him.

“It’s just, parallels. It’s like a book. With the parallels.”

“Okay.” Harry laughs too, though he doesn’t get it. But Zayn’s so earnest about it it’s funny. He’s warm too, like his whole body is overheating against Harry’s side.

“No, like, I took you up to my room when you were drunk, and now you’re taking me to my room when I’m drunk!” Zayn announces it like it means the world. “Parallels!”

“If you say so. You’re the smart one.”

“Not right now.” They’ve made it to Zayn’s room, and Zayn falls onto the bed, then bounces back up, stripping off his shirt in one motion. “I’m hot.”

Harry can’t help but stare. He’s seen Zayn shirtless, but there’s something different about this, about Zayn lying back on his bed with his jeans riding low and a grin on his face like he’s inviting Harry to look. “Yeah...”

“It’s hot, Harry,” Zayn whines, and right, that’s what he means. “It shouldn’t be hot, it’s fall.”

“That’s because you’re drunk.” Harry looks around the room, but Zayn’s not so drunk that he needs watching all night, and Harry can’t think of any other reason to stay. “Are you going to be okay? Don’t feel like throwing up, or anything?”

That gets him a shake of his head. “I still want to dye my hair. I should dye it now!”

“No!” It comes out loud and fast, but Harry’s not going to let Zayn do something he regrets when he can blame it on Harry. And Harry likes Zayn’s hair. He doesn’t want it changed. “Not right now.”

“But I’m living in the moment.” Zayn props himself up on his elbows, blinking up at Harry. His eyes are so big, big and dark-lined like he’s wearing eye makeup even though Harry knows he isn’t. “I’m not being boring. Right?” He gives Harry a plaintive look that could break his heart. “I’m not being boring.”

Harry reaches over to smooth the hair off of forehead. It’s a little crunchy with gel and sweat, but Harry can’t care, when Zayn’s looking up at him like that, confused but trusting. Harry’s not sure he’s ever been trusted like that, like Zayn knows he’ll take care of him. “You aren’t,” he assures Zayn, just to get that plaintive look off his face.

“Good.” Zayn’s smile is silly, open. It feels like Harry’s stealing it, a little, but he’s not sure he cares. “I’m in the moment.”

“Is it good?” Harry asks. He strokes Zayn’s hair one more time. Zayn doesn’t seem to be objecting.

Zayn purses his lips, thinking. Even now, Zayn has to think about the question.

Then his hand is in Harry’s shirt, and he tugs him down so their lips meet, hard and a little awkward. Harry flails, off balance mentally and physically, but Zayn lets him go before he can regain balance either way.

“I’m in the moment,” Zayn repeats, and lets himself drop back onto the bed.

“I can see that.” Harry licks at his lips. “I’m…if you’re good, I’m going to go. I’ll check on you later.”

“Bye Harry!” Zayn sits up again to wave, as Harry leaves.

He gets outside before he presses his fingers to his lips.

///

Harry doesn’t manage to see Zayn in the morning. Zayn’s light is off when he wakes up, but even just looking at that window makes Harry’s stomach do something interesting that makes it hard to concentrate on Netflix, and somehow it gets him to open up his college essays. He works on them for a while, until he sees Zayn’s light go on, but that coincides with Harry’s mother knocking on his door and reminding him that they’re about to leave to spend the day at his grandparents’, so he’s hurried out of the house with barely a chance to shower, let alone stop by the Maliks’. It’s times like these, he thinks, that he need to remember to get Zayn’s phone number. Or at least Zayn needs to get a facebook. The best he can do is to email Zayn’s school email, a quick ‘hope you’re feeling all right I’ll see you later!’ message that he doesn’t even know if Zayn will get.

By the time he’s back, it’s evening. Harry’s already said he’s going with Niall and some other friends to a movie tonight and he has to leave in half an hour, but that’s enough time to pop next door.

“What did you do to him?” Waliyha demands, when she answers the door. Her eyes are narrowed, a little accusing. A lot like her brother’s, actually.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s been cranky all day—” Hungover, then. “—And now, you’ll see.”

She follows Harry upstairs, hovers behind him as he knocks.

“Yeah?” Zayn’s voice comes from behind the door. Almost immediately, so at least he was awake—Waliyha’s told Harry horror stories about the dangers of waking Zayn up, and given what he’s like after being awake for an hour, Harry believes her. “I told you Saf, I’ll help you with your homework in a little while, I have to—”

“Zayn! Your boyfriend’s here,” Waliyha yells, then turns to Harry, who has managed not to choke. “I know you’re not his boyfriend, but it’s funny to make him—”

The door’s yanked open, and Zayn’s there, glaring bloody murder at his sister. “I told you not to say that!”

“Say what?” She flutters her eyelashes innocently. “He’s your friend and he’s a boy. There was a space there, didn’t you hear it?”

“You’re a menace.” Zayn’s still glaring, but even Harry can tell he doesn’t really mean it. “Now go away.”

“You’re proud of me really!” She taunts back, but she waves to them both and walks slowly backwards to her room.

Zayn waits until she’s at least at her room to turn his gaze to Harry. “Hey, sorry.”

Harry opens his mouth to say—something, he’s not sure what. But what comes out is, “Your hair!”

Zayn raises a hand to his forehead, where a single lock of blonde hair lies, bright against the rest of the black. “Oh. Um. Yeah.”

“I told you not to dye your hair when you were!” Zayn’s eyes go big in a warning, and Harry lowers his voice. “When you were drunk! How did you even get dye? Were you—”

“I did it after I woke up.” Zayn steps back into his room, gestures Harry in with a pointed look over Harry’s shoulder for Waliyha, whose head is still poking out of her room. “I decided it was a good idea sober, too.” He touches the lock of hair again, like it feels different from the rest. Maybe it does. Harry’s never dyed his hair before. “What do you, like, do you think it looks bad?”

“No!” Harry yelps, then swallows. “No,” he repeats, slower. It doesn’t look bad. It looks really good, actually, after the first shock. It takes his pretty and gives it edge, makes anyone who looks at Zayn want to dig beneath the surface and find the secrets to all his layers. “No, it looks great, Zayn.”

Zayn glances down at his hands. “Thanks.”

Harry knows he’s supposed to respond, he just can’t stop staring at where the blonde lies on Zayn’s forehead. It makes him want to brush it off, but he closes his hands into fists. He knows some impulses aren’t there to be acted on. Not when they’re already not talking about the first kiss. And for all Harry knows, Zayn doesn’t remember the second. His life hasn’t been this complicated in years. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised, that Zayn’s complicated it.

“Oh!” Harry says at last, after the silence has stretched on too long. “I just wanted to check that you were all right, after last night. I mean, it looks like you are, but you were pretty…you know, and I just wanted to make sure…”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Bit of a hangover, but I drank some water after you left.” Zayn glances up, and it ends up being through his lashes. Zayn has to know. It’s Zayn, he knows everything. So he has to know just what that look does. “No adverse affects from a night of spontaneity.”

“Told you.”

“As long as it’s one night. And I was okay to work today.”

“Zayn.” Harry sighs. “Tell me you aren’t working on college essays.”

“I should be, but no, I was doing homework.” Zayn waves his hand at his desk, where Harry does see the English book they’re supposed to be reading is lying. “And I was fiddling with yearbook stuff too.”

“The yearbook?” Harry repeats. He knew Zayn was on yearbook, but it’s barely November. “That doesn’t come out until June.”

“Yeah, and if we leave it until then Pez and I won’t get it all done. I’m just looking at this season, making sure we’re in a good place for it.” Zayn says it like it’s obvious.

“Oh. I worked on an essay this morning!” Harry announces. It gets a grin out of Zayn, something proud.

“Yeah? Which one.”

“For the common app. I’m writing about photography, and like, what it means to me.”

“That’s awesome, Harry.” Zayn really does seem like he thinks it is, even if it’s not something Harry usually thinks of as awesome. “You know, if you want me to look it over or anything, I can.”

“Thanks.” Harry grins back at Zayn, and then they’re just standing there, smiling at each other. Zayn looks even better smiling than when he’s being all broody and frowny. He doesn’t know why Zayn looks like that so often. Or he does, now; he knows how much Zayn’s always stressing out about everything. But he shouldn’t. He should smile more like this. At Harry.

Harry’s phone buzzes, and Harry jumps a little as it jolts him out of…whatever he and Zayn are doing. He looks down at it, sees the time. “Shit, I’ve got to go, I’m going to a movie.” But he doesn’t go. It feels like something’s missing. “Um. You’re definitely all right? You were pretty drunk last night.”

“I’m fine.” Zayn’s smile has changed, into something smaller, more secret. “I think my parents were so shocked I got in late last night they didn’t notice the hangover.”

“And the hair?”

“Oh they gave up on getting me in trouble for that after the second tattoo.” Zayn waves his hand. Harry’s eyes go instinctively to Zayn’s hip, where he knows that tattoo is. Right there, between his sweatpants and his t-shirt. “Harry?”

Right. Harry shakes out his hair, so maybe he can keep Zayn from noticing where he’d been looking when he zoned out. By the time he’s done with that, he can smile again. “Right. I’ll—go then.”

“Okay.” Zayn’s got his thoughtful look on, like he’s not sure what Harry’s doing. To be fair, Harry’s not sure what he’s doing either.

“Okay. See you Monday?”

“Yeah?” Zayn reaches out. “Harry, are you—”

“See you!” Harry tells him, and retreats. He has to go get ready for the movies. Now. Right now.

Mr. Malik’s sitting in the kitchen, as Harry passes. He nods to Harry, his eyes far too knowing. Too like his son’s.

“Bye!” Harry calls, and shuts the door behind him.

He doesn’t run back to his house. It’s maybe not a totally dignified walk, but he doesn’t run. He just…doesn’t get it. Why he’s being weird. It’s just Zayn. Zayn, the boy next door. The boy next door who he didn’t even like until a few months ago. Who definitely didn’t like him at all—who might still not like him, Harry’s not even sure anymore. He’s just the nerdy boy next door, who thinks too hard and doesn’t know how to have fun and thinks Harry’s an idiot. Just Zayn.

Harry glances out the window. Zayn’s just visible in his room, facing what Harry knows is his collage wall. Harry can only see one shoulder and his profile, but he can picture the rest, and his profile’s enough. He grabs his camera off the nightstand, zooms in. Maybe it’s creepy, but it’s not like he’s going to show it to anyone. He takes the shot.

///

Apparently they aren’t talking about the second kiss, either. Monday Zayn and Waliyha get in the car, and Zayn looks half asleep like usual. The blonde streak’s still as shocking and as weirdly alluring as before, even when Zayn leans against the window, his eyes drooping until his eyelashes sweep over his cheeks. Harry wishes he could take a picture while he’s driving.

Zayn wakes up about halfway to school, brushing his hair off his forehead, and that makes Waliyha perk up too.

“Zayn! You need to ask Harry his opinion.”

“Wali!” Zayn snaps. He glances at Harry, then his gaze slides away.

“My opinion about what?”

“Waliyha Malik, if you don’t—”

“Jacob Miller asked him out at the party I’m not supposed to know he went to,” Waliyha goes on, blithely ignoring her brother. “Doniya and me think he should go. But he says he’s not going to. Tell him he’s being stupid, Harry.”

“Did he really?” Harry manages to get out, with a look at Zayn. Zayn’s staring straight ahead, his jaw set.

“Yeah. Not that it matters.”

“What did you say?” And when was this? Harry had been with him for a lot of the party. Jacob’s a friend of Liam’s, a track runner who’s probably in some of Zayn’s classes—Harry knows he does some APs, at least. So maybe when it was when Zayn was hanging out with Liam? That wasn’t much time.

“I, um. Said I’d think about it.” Zayn shrugs. His fingers are drumming on his thighs. “But I’m going to say no. I don’t have time for a boyfriend. I’ve got work and I need to do my essays and there’s yearbook and the paper and I’m going to start shadowing someone at the hospital, and homework. I don’t need a boyfriend. That’s always been the plan.”

“You’re so lame,” Waliyha sighs, like her older brother’s lameness is the worst thing that could happen to her. “Harry, tell him he’s being stupid. Tell him that boyfriends aren’t part of the plan, and Jacob’s cute.”

“I—” Harry can’t seem to catch his breath entirely. “He is cute. If you like blondes.”

“And Zayn does. He has a huge crush on Chris Evans.”

“Waliyha!” Zayn repeats, but he seems to have given up on shutting her up, slumping down in his seat instead.

“Well then, I mean, yeah. He’s cute. You could have fun.” The words feel like they’re drying out his mouth, but it’s true. Harry guesses.

Zayn’s look is unreadable, his face blank like it was for those years when he didn’t like Harry. “So you think I should say yes?”

Harry takes a deep breath, and looks at the road in front of them. “I think you should do whatever you want.” Waliyha harrumphs from the backseat, clearly disappointed. Zayn makes a noise too, but it’s not as clear what it means.

“Well, I think that it’s my life, not yours,” Zayn aims at his sister, who makes a mutinous face, “And that having a boyfriend isn’t part of the plan. It’d just make things complicated, and I don’t need that right now. And I’ll be going to college in a few months anyway, it’s stupid to start something now when it would just end.”

Waliyha throws her hands up. “I’m telling Doniya. And Jawaad. And they’ll tell Auntie—”

“They won’t. They love me more than you.” Zayn sits up to stick his tongue out at her. Harry doesn’t look away from the road, though it doesn’t mean he can’t see Zayn out of the corner of his eyes.

He’d gotten asked out at the party, then he’d kissed Harry. But that was just…he’d been in the moment, Zayn had said. And now they weren’t talking about it. Maybe he’d wanted to see if it would be worth it, to break his plans for Jacob. Maybe he’d just been drunk.

Either way, Harry is very happy when they get to school, and Waliyha runs off for her own friends. Zayn pauses by the car, like he’s going to say something—but then he goes too.

///

“Hey, Harry.” Harry pauses outside the door of English class. He’s not sure Zayn’s ever talked to him in school before, but that was definitely his voice, stopping him. It surprises him enough he almost trips, but then Zayn’s hands are on his hips, steadying him as he laughs. Harry doesn’t even get a chance to process the touch before it’s gone, though.

“Hey.” Harry ruffles his hair, turning so his back is to a locker, and Zayn’s standing in front of him. He looks a little surprised to be talking to Harry during school too—Harry can see a few people giving them confused looks over Zayn’s shoulder—which is comforting, at least. He’s still getting used to Zayn not glaring at him every time he sees him. “What’s up?”

“Um. I need a, like. A favor. Sort of!” Zayn hurries on. His hand’s tugging on his ear, nervous. “It’ll help you too, or it could.”

“What’s up?”

“Remember, you owe me. I went to the party.” Zayn glances up at the clock. “You’re going to Chem, right? Me too, I’ll ask on the way.” It takes Harry a second, but of course Zayn’s in AP Chem.

“Yeah, sure.” They fall into step easily. “And I already gave you your part of the bargain for the party, I left you alone. I don’t owe you anything.”

“Sure you do. That wasn’t equal. I ended up dying my hair.”

Harry’s not sure whose side that puts the scales on. “That was your fault, not mine!”

Zayn grins, quick and bright. “So you say. Anyway, like, Perrie and I were going over yearbook stuff, and we don’t have anywhere near enough pictures. So I was thinking, you’ve always got that camera, right? Do you have good shots of school activities and shit?”

Harry puts a hand to the camera around his neck, petting it a little. “I’ve got lots of good shots. I’m a good photographer.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t.” Zayn rolls his eyes. “I was just wondering if we could have some? You could be, like, our official yearbook photographer.”

“Yeah, sure.” Harry doesn’t see a problem with it. He’s got a lot of photos, and it would be nice for them to go somewhere. He’s happy to help.

Zayn doesn’t seem to have heard him, though. “It would be good for your apps, get another extracurricular, and it’d help the yearbook too, and—”

“Zayn, I said okay.” Harry can’t help his laugh, or how he elbows Zayn to cut him off. “You don’t need to convince me.”

“Oh. Thanks!” Zayn’s grin is a little overwhelming this time. Harry’s not sure he’s ever seen it pointed at him; he’s sure he would have remembered if he had. “That’s such a massive help, like, you’ve got no idea. I didn’t know what I’d do otherwise. Do you think you could get us some soon? So we can get an idea of any holes we might have, ‘cause you didn’t know, and we can figure out how to fill them?”

“Sure. I’ll get you some sometime—” Harry can almost see the wheels turning in Zayn’s head, the ‘when is sometime how will I fit it in my schedule’ wheels. “I’ve got work tonight, and tomorrow evening, but I’ll get it to you by Thursday, okay?”

Zayn presses his lips together, clearly scheduling, then nods. “Yeah, that’s great. You’re a lifesaver, Harry. Or, like, my life saver at least. Thought I’d have to learn how to take pictures.”

“Anything but that.” Harry strokes his camera again. “Now you owe me a favor, though.”

“Yeah, no,” Zayn drawls, and then he’s ducking into his classroom with a gleeful laugh before Harry can retort.

///

Wednesday evening, Harry sits down at his computer. He has a bad habit of not actually looking at most of the pictures he takes for ages, until he finally looks at all of them—unless he really likes one right away, then he’ll post it to Instagram or something—so he just has to hope he has what Zayn needs here. He should. He wants to—wants to get Zayn to smile at him like that again, like Harry is saving him. Like Zayn thinks he’s impressive.

He starts at the beginning of the year, and immediately he’s hit with Laura—picture after picture of her, smiling and frowning and smirking, with her Mona Lisa smile and the photogenic angles of her face. There are other pictures in there Zayn can use—it’s not like she’s in every one—but there are a lot of her. Harry can hardly remember why, though he smiles a little to think of it. She is beautiful, but there’s none of the pain that had left him drunk on Zayn’s front lawn left. He even finds a particularly good one of her, sitting under a tree with the light filtered through the leaves onto her skin, and sends it to her.

He keeps going. There are some nice pictures of various games that he separates out, clubs that he thinks he can identify even if he’s not in them. He can make an effort after this to get more people who aren’t his friends, but the early stuff will have to be skewed, or Zayn will have to find someone else with pictures.

It happens so slowly he hardly realizes it as he’s going through the pictures, how Zayn starts to feature. How his face pops up in more and more pictures, first in the background, then the foreground, grinning and laughing and glaring at Harry. By Homecoming, he’s in maybe one in three—and Harry scrolls slowly through his pictures of the Homecoming dance. Of Zayn in his not-quite-a-suit, his profile as he leaned down to talk to Perrie, his lips around a cup of punch, his eyes caught in the flashing lights as he looks at the camera. And then after, with the night around them, on Zayn’s lawn with the flask in their hands, Zayn’s head tilted back in a laugh, then one of his face set and fierce and determined. One of Zayn lying on the grass with his eyes closed, like he had been before Harry had kissed him. There are only more after that, more and more of Zayn. There are still some Harry can give to Zayn, because Zayn’s not in every one of them, but—when did he start taking so many pictures of Zayn? When did he get in even more than Laura had?

He stops, at the last picture he has. It’s one he took that afternoon, on his way out of school—the door of a classroom frames the shot, and in the center Zayn’s sitting at a desk, frowning at the computer in front of him. He doesn’t have any idea Harry’s there, Harry thinks; it’s just Zayn deep in thought, with the little furrows in his brow he gets, his lips pursed. The light of the computer highlights his face, his hands. It’s a good picture. Objectively, that is. Harry knows that.

But the objectively nice picture doesn’t mean Harry’s stupid. He knows that he’s not looking at the picture because of that. He’s looking at the picture because Zayn’s muscles are tense and he’d like to soothe them, to smooth out that furrow in his brow so Zayn just relaxes for once, to brush that lock of blonde hair askew, to kiss those pursed lips. To kiss them, and then talk about it, not have Zayn run away after. To maybe have a right to take these pictures of him.

Harry glances out his window. Zayn’s light is on, but he can’t see him through the window. But he’s in there. Harry could throw rocks to get his attention. Could pull a Taylor Swift and write a message on the window, something that said WILL YOU GO ON A DATE WITH ME, FLICK LIGHTS ONCE FOR YES TWICE FOR NO.

Except— _I don’t have time for a boyfriend_ , Zayn had said, and that was for someone he’d admitted he liked, that he thought was cute. Not Harry, who he’d hated for years, who Harry’s still not sure he always likes. Who he definitely thinks about like Laura had, feckless and too concerned with now and not with the future. There would definitely be two flicks for that. Even if—he’d kissed Harry. He’d kissed him twice.

Harry dumps all the photos he’d found for Zayn in a dropbox folder, and sends it to Zayn. He keeps the last photo open, stares at it. At the curve of Zayn’s mouth and the blonde streak that falls on his forehead.

He wants Zayn. He wants to go out with him. He wants to kiss him without Zayn freaking out. He wants to do more than just kiss him. He wants to show Zayn just how worthwhile having a boyfriend—specifically him—can be.

But Harry knows Zayn, by now. He doesn’t want a boyfriend. And he certainly wouldn’t want Harry, if he did want a boyfriend.

Harry sighs, and looks to the window again. The light’s still there. The boy next door. With his plans and his focus and his non-fun-lovingness. Who’d have thought?

///

Harry expects something different, after his revelation. But Zayn and Waliyha still pile into his car on Thursday morning, and Zayn’s still quiet and half-asleep after mumbling a hello at Harry and a “Thanks for the pictures.” Harry steals looks at him as they drive, but he still looks the same. Of course he does. Harry’s not sure why he thought he’d look different, after Harry realized how he liked him.

They get about halfway to school before Harry can’t hold it in anymore. “Did you talk to Jacob yet?” he asks. It stops the “will you go on a date with me,” that’s on the tip of his tongue.

“Yeah.” Zayn yawns, but he’s waking up. “I told him no.”

“How’d he take it?”

Zayn bites his lip, looks away. “I think he was kind of happy about it? I don’t know if he meant to ask me out—like, if he would have when he was sober.”

“Well, he’s stupid, then.” Harry steals another look at Zayn. He’s still looking away, but Harry thinks he can see his cheeks go a little red. “Are you okay?”

“Me?” That gets Zayn to look at Harry, blinking in confusion. “Why would I not be okay? I said no.”

“I don’t know.” It was a stupid question, in retrospect. Harry’s never really felt this awkward. He always knows what to say. “It’s the first time you turned someone down, right? That’s not always easy.”

Zayn shrugs, but seems to accept that. “It was fine. Very polite and all. I’m just glad it’s done.”

“No regrets?” Harry pushes, a little. He’s not sure what he’s pushing for, but he wants to know.

“Do you think I should have said yes?” Now Zayn’s eyes are narrowing, focusing in. Harry resists the urge to squirm.

“No!” Harry shakes out his hair, trying to keep his eyes on the road at the same time. “I mean, I don’t think—I—”

“I think you should have said yes,” Waliyha interjects. Harry’s never been so glad of her presence on their rides before. “You need to have a boyfriend before you graduate.”

“Is that the rule? Sucks for straight guys, then,” Zayn tosses back, and she makes a face at him.

Zayn shakes his head, then settles back in his seat. “Anyway, thanks for the pictures. They were great—there are still some holes, but we can send something out, see if other people have any. And I can send you a list for what we need, going forward.”

“I was thinking about that,” Harry adds. It had been a good way to distract himself from staring at Zayn’s window. “I was looking at the old yearbooks, and I think I can do something more than just the posed club photos? Like, it’s not hard for me to wander into the meetings, see if I can get more fun shots. And I know these tended to be one group of people, but now I can make sure to branch out…” Harry trails off, because Zayn’s looking at him oddly. Not badly, just like he’s confused by what Harry’s saying. “What?”

“Nothing.” Zayn drums his fingers over his thigh. “That sounds good, yeah. I’ll talk with Perrie, see if we need anything else.”

“I’m thinking about my portfolio too.” Harry tries to keep his eyes ahead, but he can’t stop glancing at Zayn. “I’m thinking about attaching some to my application?”

Zayn’s smile is bright and, Harry thinks, a little proud. “That’s a good idea.”

“I thought so.” Harry knows he’s grinning stupidly. He can’t quite bring himself to care.

They pull up to school, and Waliyha runs off, as usual. Zayn gets out slower, but he’s still on his way out, when, “Zayn?”

Zayn pauses, looks back. “Yeah?” He’s got his backpack over his shoulder, his hair unstyled today, flat over his forehead. He looks like what he is, what Harry’s always known he is—the hipster nerd, uptight and more than a little judgmental. Of a different world than Harry, definitely. Ready for college, and the world ahead.

“Never mind.” Harry shakes his head. Zayn gives him a questioning look, but he walks away too.

Harry stays by his car, thinking. Zayn had been impressed by his plans. Zayn liked plans. Liked seeing how things worked and fit together. Didn’t want a boyfriend because it wasn’t part of the plan.

Well. Harry could fix that.

///

He waits until Saturday, to go to Zayn’s. He has plans Thursday evening anyway, and he knows Zayn will fuss about it being a school night if he went over, and he doesn’t want that clouding anything. Then he has a concert he’s been looking forward to Friday. So it’s not until Saturday that Harry waits until Zayn’s light turns on, then gives him another full two hours, before he goes next door and knocks.

Zayn opens the door, looking surprised. He’s in what Harry’s come to realize is his usual weekend clothes, sweatpants and a tank top—this one cut low enough that Harry can see the tattoo on his collarbone. Harry swallows. He’s got this. He’s made a plan. Zayn will listen, to the plan.

“Harry?” Zayn gives him a confused look. “What’s up?”

“I—can I come in?”

“Yeah, sure.” Zayn takes a step back, so Harry can come in. The house is weirdly quiet, a state Harry’s never heard the Malik house in.

“Where is everyone?”

“They all went to visit Doniya. I wanted to sleep,” Zayn explains, because Harry’s heard how much he adores his older sister. “And like, I’m going to visit over winter break, to get, like, a taste of college life? So I’ve got the house to myself.”

That opened up opportunities Harry hadn’t dared think about, of being alone in the house without any sort of chaperones.

“Oh.” Harry runs a hand through his hair. “How was your weekend?”

“It’s only been an evening so far.” Zayn’s eyes are narrowing at Harry. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” Harry takes a deep breath. This was easier when he thought about it in his room, without the pressure of Zayn being there. Things are so much easier when he doesn’t plan, when he doesn’t have time to overthink things. This must be why Zayn is so stressed all the time. “Can we go to your room?”

“Sure?” Zayn leads the way up to his room. It’s easier when they’re there. Zayn’s room might have been weird at first, but now it’s a comfort, like sitting in Zayn’s head. All the organized chaos, the different facets of him. And he’s spent more time here than anywhere else in the Malik house, so it’s easier, to turn as Zayn sits at the desk chair, still studying Harry. “Seriously, what’s wrong? You’re being weird.”

Harry doesn’t know if he’s ever been nervous before. “Why didn’t you like me, before this year?”

Zayn goes rigid, all at once. “What?”

It’s not part of the speech Harry had written, but he’s always been horrible at speeches anyway. “Why didn’t you like me?” Harry repeats. “Since we were, like, ten. You didn’t like me.”

“You didn’t like me,” Zayn corrects. His face is set, unreadable.

“I did! I mean,” Harry goes on, “I didn’t, really, because you didn’t like me. I tried to be friends with you, when you moved here.”

“You…” Zayn shakes his head. “I was shy, and had just moved away from all my friends, and you were, like, really loud, okay? I was still trying to get used to it. Then you decided you didn’t like me, so that was that.”

That’s not how Harry remembers it. Harry remembers trying to be friends with Zayn, and Zayn never responding, and so giving up, and then Zayn being grumpy and cold to him ever after that. But that’s not the point.

“But now you like me? You’re used to me now?”

Zayn relaxes with a smile. “Yeah, Harry. I’m used to you now.”

“And you like me?”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “And I like you. Is that what you’re being weird about?”

“No.” Harry takes a deep breath. “We kissed. Twice.”

And there goes Zayn’s smile. He scrambles to his feet, that same wide-eyed, almost terrified look he’d had after their first kiss. “Harry—”

“And you kissed me one of those times, so I don’t think it’s one-sided. And I think we should do it again.”

“What—”

“I mean, like, on a date. Or something like that.” Zayn’s still staring at him. “Shit, that wasn’t where I meant to start, I mean—I like you. A lot. More than just as friends. And I want to go out with you.”

“Harry—”

“And I know you say you don’t have time for a boyfriend, but I figured it out,” Harry rushes on, before Zayn can object. “I live next door, so that cuts down on any travel time—you won’t get more convenient. And I can be flexible, so we can fit in dates around your work and clubs and shit. And I looked it up, and study breaks are supposed to be really helpful and get you to learn better, so really me being there to distract you sometimes will help, and I promise I’ll be good about leaving you alone when you really do have to concentrate. And I want to. Distract you. And kiss you.”

Zayn’s still staring at him, his mouth gaping open a little. “Harry, I—I didn’t—you—like, really?”

“Really.” Harry steps towards him. “What do you think?”

“I—I don’t—I never thought—” Zayn shakes his head, like he’s trying to clear it. Harry can’t tell if the stammering is a good thing or a bad thing. “I mean, you’re you, and I’m—not.”

“So? I like you.” Harry takes another step forward. Zayn’s not running away, not kicking him out. “Do you like me?”

“I’ve had a crush on you since I was fourteen.” That stops Harry in his tracks.

“Really? But you were always so…like, cold around me.”

Zayn’s definitely blushing now. “Um, yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck. “May have been channeling some things.” Harry can’t stop smiling at that. Maybe even smirking. “But it doesn’t mean we can—Harry, we’re such different people, we can’t—”

“We’ll figure it out. Opposites attract. Balance. All those things.”

“And we’re both busy—”

“We can figure that out. It’s the good part of living next door. I’ll let you make a schedule, you know you like that.”

“And your friends don’t like me.”

“Sure they do.” Harry’s almost next to Zayn now, and Zayn’s leaning against the wall but he isn’t running away, and he could. He looks torn, like he’s ready to retreat but something’s keeping him here. “And they’ll like you more when they know you.”

“And I haven’t done this before, I’d suck at it. At being a boyfriend. And sex. All of it.”

“I haven’t seen you be bad at anything yet. And anyway, sucking’s approved of.”

Zayn chokes out a laugh, but he doesn’t give in. “Harry, it’s only a few months until graduation. Then who knows where we’ll go, and there’s no future there, or we’d have to figure out visiting each other and that could take—”

“Zayn.” Harry cuts him off by putting a hand on the wall next to him. He’s not quite pinning him there, but it feels almost like he is, with the way Zayn’s looking at him, still caught between what looks like fear and the way he can’t stop looking at Harry’s lips. “Stop thinking, for once. In the now, remember? What happens will happen.”

“But—I didn’t plan, I don’t know—”

“Do you want me to stop?” Harry’s leaning in, closer. Zayn’s eyes flick to his lips, then away, then back to his lips, then to his eyes.

“No,” he says, and it’s a statement, not a question. “But maybe I should—”

“Zayn.” Harry presses close. He needs Zayn to stop thinking. Needs him to just—be, for once, to live in the moment with Harry, to let Harry show him how much fun it can be. How good it can be. “Can I kiss you?”

This close, Harry can see each one of Zayn’s eyelashes as his eyes open and close, can see the freckle in one eye, the freckles over his nose. Can feel his breath as it stutters out of him. Can see him as he decides, as he finally lets go.

“Yeah,” he breathes, and Harry kisses him before he can say anything more.

Zayn doesn’t taste like alcohol this time. This time, it’s just Zayn and him, sober and aware and it’s even better like this. Zayn’s still tentative, eager but unsure, but Harry’s got experience enough for both of them. He coaxes Zayn’s lips open gently, and bites on Zayn’s lower lip in approval when Zayn’s hands get into Harry’s hair, which gets a low moan out of Zayn.

Harry keeps kissing Zayn until he can’t anymore, then pulls away. Zayn’s never looked better, in his opinion—messy from Harry and with his lips slick with spit and his eyes big and a little awed. Then he licks his lips, and Harry revises his opinion—that’s the best he’s ever looked.

“So?” Harry asks. He tries his best not to sound desperate, but he’s not sure how much he succeeds.

Zayn licks his lips again. “I can do better.”

“Not what I meant.”

“No, like.” Zayn grins, suddenly bright, and Harry’s heart does something painful. “I need to practice, yeah? So I can do better. I have to make time to practice skills, right?”

“Oh.” Harry grins back, probably stupidly. “Yeah. Practice. Definitely.”

“We could practice more now,” Zayn points out, and Harry can’t stop smiling as he obliges.

///

Harry maybe loses a bit of time, making out with Zayn. He’d had plans of things to do today, to work and get things done, and he’s sure Zayn did too, but every time he thinks about leaving he sees Zayn, and that means he has to kiss him again, because he can. Because Zayn is a very quick study, even in the past few hours. Because he just looks kissable.

Finally it’s Zayn who shoves Harry off him, then laughingly keeps him away, “I have homework!” he protests, when Harry tries to wriggle closer again.

“You can do it later.” Harry pouts as becomingly as he can, but instead of a laugh, it gets Zayn to frown a little, his brow furrowing.

“I—like, I can’t just, do that, Harry. I still need to get my shit done, and I have to do my essays and work and extracurriculars and—”

“I know.” Does Zayn think he doesn’t know him at all? Because he thinks he can, and he’s always wanted to, Harry reaches out and, when Zayn doesn’t move away even if he looks wary, runs his finger down the center of Zayn’s forehead, over the furrows there. “I told you, I’ve figured it out. I can fit into your schedule—I’ll change my work hours if I have to, Lou’s chill like that. We can make plans and all. We can do our homework together. Though not always.” Harry pokes Zayn’s nose, because it’s there and it makes Zayn make a hilariously adorable face. “I’m going to make your life interesting.”

Zayn makes another face when Harry laughs at him. “I just, I can’t…I’ve got goals, Harry. And I’m going to make them work.”

“Yeah, I know. And I’m going to make sure you have fun sometimes when you do. And to show you that,” Harry keeps going, before Zayn can try to reason his way out of it again. “I’m going to leave now, and let you do work.”

“Oh.” Zayn blinks again, like he wasn’t expecting that. “You are?”

“Yes.” To demonstrate his resolve, Harry gets up off the bed. He should get a medal for that. Instead, he grabs his camera from where he’d set it safely on top of Zayn’s book on the bedside table, frames up the picture. Zayn’s trying to glare at the camera, but he can’t help his smile, and it makes for a lovely photo, Zayn all mussed and gorgeous on his bed. “I’m taking this with me, though. In case I need motivation.”

“It’s not exactly a nude.” Zayn sits up too, running a hand through his hair in a vain attempt to neaten it.

“Was that you volunteering to send me nudes?”

“Not even a little.” Harry pretends to pout, but he can’t keep it up for long. “I really need to do work.”

“I know.” Harry leans in, and kisses him one more time. “For the road!” he tells Zayn, when he laughs. “You should definitely do work right in front of your window. Shirtless.”

“What?” Zayn chokes, but Harry shakes his head.

“I’m going.”

“I’ll walk you out.” Zayn gets up too. For a second they just stand there, looking at each other, then Zayn bites his lip and reaches out, grabs Harry’s hand. Harry knows he’s smiling ridiculously large, but he can’t help it. He’s never felt like this before, not with any of this other boyfriends or girlfriends. Never felt this giddy, or this steady. Like he wants to stay here forever. Wants to hold Zayn’s hand forever.

But he can’t say all that, so he just squeezes Zayn’s hand, and lets Zayn lead him out the door.

The house is still quiet, as they go downstairs, no sign of any sisters. But as they head through the hall, “Hello, Harry,” comes from the dining room.

Zayn freezes, his hand convulsing on Harry’s, then dropping it. Harry freezes, then turns to the opening to see Mr. Malik sitting there, looking at Harry over the top of a book. “Hi, Mr. Malik!” He gives Zayn a panicked look. What is he supposed to say? Zayn looks pretty well kissed, what does he look like? Maybe it’s not too obvious?

Mr. Malik doesn’t say anything, but there’s something in his even gaze that makes Harry squirm. “I didn’t know you were coming over today.”

“Just, um. Stopping by. How was Doniya?”

“Very good. She says you owe her a call, beta,” he adds to Zayn.

“I will.” Zayn rubs at his neck. “Where are—I thought you’d be out all day?”

“The girls are shopping, so they dropped me off.” He still looks normal, like he’s just making conversation. “Safaa needs a present for a birthday party, apparently.”

“Yeah, for Aleida, she said.” Zayn nods. “Um. Harry was just leaving, so…”

“Nice to see you, Harry.” Mr. Malik nods, and lifts his book again. Zayn takes one step back, then two, tugging Harry with him. Maybe he didn’t notice?

They’re almost gone when, “Oh, and Harry?” Mr. Malik adds mildly, not looking away from his book. “Door stays open when you’re here from now on.”

“Yes, sir!” Harry yelps, then Zayn succeeds in pulling him away, laughing into his shoulder as Harry shoves at him. “What?”

“Why were you so scared?” Zayn laughs, closing the door behind them. “He hasn’t got a shotgun or anything, I promise.”

“I’ll be the one laughing when my mum catches us,” Harry retorts. This time he grabs Zayn’s hand. “I’ll see you later?”

“Um. Yeah.” Zayn ducks his head, biting his lip. “If I don’t see you, or talk to someone, are we—like, I’m not—what do you want to do at school?”

Harry tilts his head, confused. “Probably not make out in the cafeteria? Unless you want to?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t.”

“Like, do you…I’m not the sort of person you usually date, and if, like, that’s not something you want, I don’t know if I could keep it a secret exactly, but—”

“No secrets.” Harry pulls him close, then kisses him again, because he wants to bite Zayn’s lip instead of Zayn doing it. “Promise.”

“Oh.” Zayn grins, big and relieved. “But just so you know, Waliyha’s going to make a lot of fun of us.”

“I’ll live.” Harry kisses Zayn one more time, then, “Okay, you go do work.”

“You do work.” Zayn pokes his shoulder. “Now I’ve got investment in you. Do your essays.”

“Will there be a reward if I do?”

“There could be.” Zayn smirks, and shakes his head when Harry tries to kiss him again. “No, seriously, my dad’s probably going to tease me so much already. We need to go.”

“Fine.” Harry sighs, and lets go of Zayn. “Spoilsport.” Then he darts in, presses his lips to Zayn once more, then dances out of Zayn’s reach. “Last one for now!” he promises, and backs down the stairs. He’d be more embarrassed about not wanting to look away from Zayn if Zayn went inside before he got to his house.

Or if, when Harry got back to his room, he couldn’t see Zayn in the window, still grinning stupidly to himself as he opened his book.

///

“Lie down with me.” Harry grins at Zayn, who’s standing above him, his arms crossed and his lips pursed skeptically. He’s so pretty, even when he’s trying not to laugh at Harry. Especially when he’s trying not to laugh. Harry reaches out, grabs his hands so he can swing them entreatingly. Zayn, he’s come to realize over the past few months, is a much softer touch than he likes to pretend he is.

“It’s cold and wet. You’ll ruin your suit.”

Harry keeps swinging his arms. He’s not drunk, but he thinks he could be, after an evening of dancing with Zayn in a suit at the Winter Formal. Zayn looks good in suits. Zayn looks good in everything, but especially suits. In Harry’s professional opinion, no one looks better in suits than him. “But it’ll be fun! It’s parallels, you like those, right? We met with me lying in your yard.”

“We met when we were twelve, and that was September. It’s February now. There’s snow.”

It’s a fair point, but Harry still tug on him, trying to get him closer. “But Zayn. Parallels.”

“But Harry. No,” Zayn parrots back, and then he tugs on their hands, so Harry stumbles closer to him. “How about instead we go inside and not freeze?” His eyes dart away, then back to Harry. “My family’s away for the weekend.”

“You do make good plans,” Harry admits. “Do you think your parents realize what will happen when they leave us alone?”

“Yes.” Zayn sounds very certain. Harry wraps his arms around his waist as Zayn pulls his keys out of his pocket, nuzzling into his neck. He smells good, like the cologne he’s taken to wearing more. “I know they do, because my dad gave me a talk yesterday before they left.”

“A talk? Like, the talk? Didn’t you already have one of those?”

“It was more a ‘be sure you’re ready and don’t let him rush you’ talk.” Zayn gets the door open, and lets them in. It is a lot warmer inside, Harry will give him that. Maybe Zayn does have a point. Sometimes. “And it was really more a ‘your mom wanted me to give you this talk but you’re smart’ talk. But yeah. They know what’s going to happen.”

“I…” Harry untangles himself from Zayn, watching as he closes the door, takes off his shoes. Harry follows suit, but he doesn’t look away from Zayn. “You know I don’t have, like, expectations? Nothing has to happen, if you don’t want it to.”

“Harry.” Zayn’s the one who wraps his arms around Harry’s neck this time, tilting his head so he has to look at Zayn. “Do I look not ready?”

“No, but…” But Harry’s the one with experience here. But Harry’s been making sure not to push Zayn, or to balance pushing him to have fun with not pushing past any boundaries. They’ve talked about it, the space Zayn needs and the attention Harry does, where they can push each other where they have to let it alone. They’ve fought about it, hadn’t talked for a full week once until Safaa had apparently guilted Zayn into opening communication. “I just don’t want you to think you have to do anything. This isn’t the sort of thing there has to be a plan for.”

“That sounds like a dare,” Zayn laughs, and kisses Harry. They’ve had a lot of practice there, and it’s made perfect for sure; Zayn knows just how to make Harry lose all thoughts in favor of kissing him back. He’s pressed so close, so Harry can feel the warmth of him through their suits, and Harry has to break away to take a deep breath to calm himself down. “Come on, Harry. I’m losing my virginity the night of the Winter Formal. Isn’t that, like, the quintessential high school experience you say I miss out on?” He pauses, then adds, “I mean, if you give credence to the idea that virginity is defined by penetration and is a formative—what?”

Harry’s laughing, his head falling onto Zayn’s shoulder.

“What?” Zayn demands again. Harry can feel him going a little stiff, like he’s afraid this is all a joke, so Harry lifts his head to kiss his cheek.

“You’re just so you,” He explains, and kisses the objection he knows Zayn is going to make about that not making sense away. “Are you sure you want to go upstairs?”

“Yes, Harry, I would like at some point to go up the stairs of my house, as that’s where my bedroom is.”

“Shut up.” Harry nips at his ear for the snark, which gets a very gratifying little breath out of Zayn. It also keeps him quiet as they get upstairs, as Zayn closes the door to his bedroom behind them.

Harry looks around again. He’s spent a lot of time in here the past few months, because he’s found the easiest way to spend time with Zayn is to be with him while he works and insert study breaks ‘so he can be more productive between them.’ It’s been good for his productivity too, having Zayn reward him for finishing essays and his portfolio. The collage has spread out even more, and Harry grins to see him in it—sketches of him, but also some of his favorite photographs, a stub of a ticket from where Harry’d agreed to go see the latest Marvel movie with him. It makes him feel intertwined with Zayn, like Zayn couldn’t let him go. Like this will last.

“You had fun at the dance?” Zayn asks, sitting down on his bed. He looks confident, but Harry’s pretty sure that’s bravado, from the set of his head. “And the party?”

“Of course. I love parties.” Harry doesn’t want to sit down on the bed, if that would be too much pressure, so he sort of hovers in the middle of the room instead. This is why planning this is so weird. Now there’re all these expectations, instead of just letting it happen. “Why wouldn’t I this time?”

“I mean, like.” Zayn glances down, then back up quickly. “I know I’m not the most fun date you’ve ever had.”

“But you are the best.” Now Harry does go to the bed, but instead of sitting down he nudges Zayn’s knees apart so he can fit between them. “And the prettiest. And the smartest. I liked showing off my Harvard-accepted boyfriend.”

Zayn’s cheeks are that hint of flushed that Harry loves to evoke. “So, are we going to do this?”

“Not if you keep talking about it like it’s another one of your lists,” Harry complains, but he leans down to kiss Zayn anyway. Zayn arches up to meet him, and this time Harry pulls out his tricks to get Zayn to stop thinking so much, which Harry has learned is a very necessary reason to kiss him.

It must work, because Zayn shuts up and kisses Harry, and then they’re on the bed properly, Zayn moaning and tugging on Harry’s hair as Harry kisses at his jaw, his neck.

“Off,” Zayn declares, his hands on Harry’s suit jacket. “Take it off.”

“You’re so bossy,” Harry points out, but he sits up, strips off his jacket and his shirt for good measure, lays them on the chair. “Now you.”

Zayn tosses the clothes aside with no respect for what could happen to them, but Harry doesn’t have long to think about that either because he can’t really concentrate on anything else when Zayn’s shirtless in front of him. It’s not the first time he’s gotten to this level of undress—Harry’s been pretty thorough learning about his tattoos—but it’s still a lot, and Harry has to greet each tattoo properly as Zayn runs his hands over Harry’s stomach, his chest, tweaking at his nipples like he’s discovered Harry likes. Harry’s given up on not grinding against Zayn’s thigh, but he’s trying to keep it as non-demanding as he can, not least because he needs this to last, and not get distracted by the bulge in Zayn’s pants.

Zayn’s hands have made their way down again, to Harry’s belt, but they’re hovering there, hesitating. “Only if you want,” Harry tells him, again, but god he hopes Zayn wants. He wants to see if he can get Zayn totally undone.

Zayn nods, then he’s undoing Harry’s belt. Harry has to get off of Zayn to properly get his pants off, which is good because he finds he can’t quite look at Zayn when he does. He’s been naked with people before. He doesn’t have any shame about his body. He just…can’t quite look at him.

It’s probably good he doesn’t, because he almost trips when he looks again. Zayn’s naked on the bed. They haven’t done this before, and Harry doesn’t know where to look. He wants to look everywhere, but that’s too much and not enough and—

“There’s lube and condoms in the bedside table,” Zayn says, matter of fact like he’s not red and he’s not looking very fixedly at Harry’s face like he’s trying not to look anywhere else.

“Are you sure?” Harry asks, one more time. He doesn’t want to fuck this up.

“Yes.” Zayn manages to roll his eyes, even like this.

“Or, we could—you could fuck me, if you’d rather. I like both. We could—”

Zayn props himself up on his elbows. “It’s not like you to be so worried.” That furrow in his brow is coming back. “Do you want to? We don’t have to if you don’t.”

“I want to, I just—now I’m thinking about it too much.” Harry shakes out his hair, which feels weirder naked. “It’s your fault.”

“Well, stop thinking. Leave the worrying to me.”

Harry takes a deep breath. He doesn’t know why this has gotten him so twisted up. He’s good at sex. He knows he is. Zayn and he have been good every step of the way up to here, and there’s been a steady escalation that’s possibly on some sort of schedule from Zayn.

“You shouldn’t worry either,” he tells Zayn, and opens the bedside table drawer where Zayn indicated.

Zayn’s watching him as he comes back to the bed, his eyes dark and intent. Harry pokes at his forehead, where there are still worry lines, then kisses him again. They haven’t kissed naked before, and it’s so different, how Zayn’s skin feels—how his dick feels, on Harry’s thigh, and he can’t think about that if he wants to last, like he can’t think about how his dick feels against Zayn, the friction and heat of it.

“Okay, you’re the expert,” Zayn pants, when Harry lets go of his lips in favor of his chest. “What happens now?”

“Stop rushing,” Harry chides, but he doesn’t want to wait either, sliding down Zayn’s body until he’s between his legs. Zayn’s biting at his lip, hard, but he doesn’t look away as Harry gets probably too much lube on his fingers.

“This is going to feel weird,” Harry warns, as he circles Zayn’s rim. Zayn makes a face like he’s trying not to roll his eyes, then it…changes, as Harry slides a finger in. “Okay?”

“Weird,” Zayn admits. “But, yeah. Okay.”

Harry keeps opening him up slowly, even if he’s getting so hard he thinks he might explode. But he’s going to make this good for Zayn if it kills him.

“Okay, that’s enough, right? You can fuck me now?” Zayn demands, when Harry’s gotten three fingers in and Zayn’s rocking back on them. Harry has been trying not to look at him, because that way lies everything being over too soon, but now he can’t help it, and it’s gorgeous, his faced flushed and sweaty, his cock hard and inviting.

“Yeah, I think—it should be,” Harry agrees, and closes his eyes briefly to think about unsexy things.

When he opens them again, Zayn’s got the condom open, and is holding it out to Harry. Unsexy things. Tornados. Hurt kittens. Anything that’s not Zayn watching intently as Harry puts the condom on, his breath hissing out of him at even that pressure.

“Not sure I’ll last long,” Harry confesses, and Zayn chokes out a laugh.

“Don’t think that’ll be a problem for me.”

“Aw, I’m that good?” Harry teases, and pushes Zayn’s legs apart farther, hitching them up around his waist. Zayn’s staring unabashedly now, like he’s never seen anything as fascinating.

“Don’t know, do I? I’d need comparisons.”

“No, I’m that good,” Harry assures him, and his cock catches against Zayn’s hole and they both go quiet.

Harry guides himself in slowly, watching as Zayn’s face tenses in discomfort. But when Harry stops, Zayn just glares, so Harry keeps pushing in. Harry’s fucked other people before, but this feels different somehow, feels like more, feels better, Zayn around him and the heat and Harry has to focus his whole self on not coming and going slowly.

“Okay?” He chokes out, when he’s all the way in. Zayn’s still making a face, but he nods, circling his hips experimentally.

“It’s—yeah. Yeah.” He grins, though there’s something strained about it. “Thought you were going to fuck me, Styles.”

Harry has to kiss him for that dig, and then he pulls out a little and thrusts back in. Zayn’s breath goes loud, as Harry keeps fucking him, and if Harry thought he looked good before now he looks—Zayn would know the word but Harry doesn’t have them, can only move, shifting to try to change the angle until—

“Oh, fuck!” Zayn swears, his back arching and Harry smirks, keeps that angle. “Fuck, Harry, fucking hell—” He lets go of Harry’s shoulder to get a hand on himself, stroking almost frantically. “God, I can’t—shit, I’m going to—” Harry doesn’t even understand half the words coming out of Zayn’s mouth, thinks they might be in another language, but he can’t slow down, can barely keep a rhythm he’s so close himself.

It is over quickly, but Harry doesn’t care, when Zayn comes on a long, inarticulate moan over his chest, and Harry can’t think about anything else, but Zayn’s screwed up face and how he tightens around Harry and the come splattered on his stomach and Harry only manages a few seconds more before he’s coming too.

He barely manages to keep himself from falling on Zayn as the orgasm spasms through him. It’s not, like, the best orgasm he’s ever had, but it feels like it should be. Like the start of something, with Zayn smiling blissfully at him.

Zayn keeps that smile, with only a little change, as Harry pulls out of him, and grabs a shirt from the laundry basket to clean them up. Zayn either can’t move or is too lazy to, but either way Harry’s happy to indulge him.

After, Harry curls up on the bed next to Zayn, so Zayn can run his hand through Harry’s hair, and Harry can play with the fingers of his other hand. Cuddling with Zayn is even better naked. Harry’s not surprised.

He takes a deep breath. It smells like sex, like sex and him and Zayn. He wants to live in that scent forever. “Good?” he asks, instead.

Zayn laughs. Harry can feel his chest moving with it. “No, that sucked, clearly. I can’t move because of how horrible it was.”

“Thought so.” Harry brings Zayn’s hand to his lips, brushes a kiss over the knuckles. “Seriously, you feel okay?”

“Yes. Or like, I’m sore, but I’m supposed to be, right? So nothing out of the ordinary.” He tugs gently on Harry’s hair. “I’m the worrier, remember? Stop it.”

“I like your plans, though. This one, at least.” It gets another laugh out of Zayn, and Harry grins. He likes making Zayn laugh. He wishes he had his camera—Zayn laughing post-coital is a camera-worthy sight, all languid limbs and crinkly eyes. “Zayn?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think….” Harry trails off, but it comes out anyway. “Do you think we’ll stay together? Like, in college?”

Zayn’s laughter fades. “I don’t know,” he says slowly. “I mean, statistically we won’t. But,” he goes on, before Harry can say anything, his smile a little weak but real. “We’ve got now, right?”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, and shifts so he can kiss Zayn. They will. He’ll make it work. He’ll figure out visiting and long distance and all those other things. “Now is good.”


End file.
